Island of the Skull
by Lindemacil
Summary: The Kong incident has left Carl Denham broke and troubled with lawsuits. With the backing of an American tycoon, he organizes a new expedition with a new crew, but nothing is quite as it seems. On Hiatus!
1. Chapter 1

This is my first King Kong fic, so bear with me here.

Two Notes:

One: There will be many, many Original Characters in this fic, so if you're not too fond of OCs, you've been warned. There are no pairings planned, but we'll see how the fic progresses. Denham appears in this chapter and will play a large role. Englehorn, Jimmy, and possibly Preston will also be major players. Ann and Jack will probably not appear. (for disclaiming purposes, I don't own any of them!)

Two: The chapters will probably be long. I think this chapter might be a little too long, but I couldn't decide what to cut, so it all stayed.

My goal is to update every Saturday. Constructive criticism is muchly welcomed! On to the story!

* * *

Chapter One

June 2, 1934

New York City. The urban jungle. Haze lingered in the mid-morning air, and the temperature was already warmer than average for the season. The pressing humidity did nothing to allay the crowds on the streets and the sidewalks; the city was as lively as ever.

Laura Ashfield stood at the window of her parents' sitting room, gazing down at the bustling streets and smoking a cigarette. The crowds fascinated her: all these people, earning too little money and spending too much. Up here, in the three-story house her parents had lived in since 1921, she couldn't pretend to know nothing of their problems. After all, they were her problems too.

The double doors attached to the master bedroom opened, and Margaret Ashfield slipped through them, closing them quietly behind her. She smoothed her hands down her rounded hips and tried to smile at Laura, who had turned to watch her.

"He's sleeping," she said softly, crossing the room to come to the window. Her heeled shoes thumped on the thin carpet. "Do you think Dr. Bartholomew will be able to come by today?"

"We haven't paid but half of the last bill yet," Laura said, flicking the ash off her cigarette and out the window.

"I know, but I think his cough is worse, and –." She cut herself off, placing a hand on Laura's arm. "I'd just feel better if Dr. Bartholomew looked at him."

Laura rubbed her forehead; she could already feel the pressure of a headache building, and it was only a matter of time before the full brunt fell upon her. She crushed out the cigarette; the smoke always made her nauseous when she had a headache. Her mother gazed at her, expectant and hopeful, wanting only to be reassured, even if that reassurance was as insubstantial as the morning haze. She looked all of her sixty years: the weight of her age was in the curves of her hips, the wrinkles on her face, the sagging of her shoulders. She looked defeated.

"I'll call him," Laura said.

"No, no, you stay here, and I'll have Mary call him," Margaret said, and she sailed out of the room and into the hallway. Her advancing years and widening girth had done little to inhibit the grace that had been her trademark in her years as a debutante.

In the bedroom, Walter Ashfield coughed in great, gasping barks, and Laura thought he sounded worse too. He'd been doing well earlier that week, feeling strong enough to sit downstairs in the den and take his meals with his wife and daughters. The cancer in his body hadn't let him be for long, and now he'd spent the past two days in bed, barely conscious. Laura didn't need a doctor to tell her that he was dying.

A light breeze fluttered the window's curtains, and Laura held her arm against the window pane to keep it from blowing closed. The loose sleeves of her blouse ruffled against her flesh, but the air was warm and uncomfortable. The summer would not be pleasant. Margaret had spoken of going to Newport when Walter had been up and about, but now nobody mentioned such a trip. The Ashfields would be staying just where they were, which Laura didn't mind. Newport bored her, and they couldn't afford it anyway: with all those balls and dinner parties and concerts to attend, Alice would insist on updating her wardrobe. She had already pushed for a few new dresses, and Laura's refusal had made her Alice's least favorite person. Laura hoped George would propose to the girl soon. Taking care of aging parents was one thing; looking after spoiled younger sisters was certainly another.

A taxi pulled up in front of the tidy brownstone home, and Laura leaned out the window a bit to see who was arriving for an unannounced visit. She expected to see Mr. Darcy, her mother's scarecrow-thin lawyer, but the man who stepped out of the cab was more of the roly-poly variety. Laura's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I'll be damned," she whispered. "If it isn't the honorable Mr. Denham himself."

Once upon a time, Carl Denham had been a regular visitor at the Ashfields', so much so that they had come to consider him more a friend than an employer. The relationship had denigrated since the onset of Sir Walter's illness, and of course there had been that great Kong debacle that knocked Denham off his feet and held him down for most of the winter and spring. There were rumblings in the film business that he wanted to make a comeback, but Laura couldn't think of anyone crazy enough to back him.

Which made his impromptu visit that much more interesting.

Margaret came back into the room, wringing her hands. "He'll come by tomorrow. He has too many appointments to come today."

"Hmm," Laura replied. She pulled the curtains further back to watch Denham cross the sidewalk and come up the front steps.

"What are you doing?" Margaret asked as she moved to the window.

Laura dropped the curtain and said, "Carl Denham is paying us a visit."

Her brows furrowing, Margaret peeked around her daughter's shoulder, just in time to see Denham disappear under the eaves. "Why would he be stopping by to see us?"

"Probably to ask for money," Laura said. "Half of New York is suing him; I can only imagine what the lawyer fees must be like."

"He should be well enough aware that we don't have any money," retorted Margaret. "Perhaps he's come about a new movie."

Laura scoffed. "He should be well enough aware that Dad's in no condition to go traipsing off to Natal or Ceylon or wherever else the devil it is he wants to film."

"Language," Margaret reprimanded absent-mindedly. She gave her daughter a side-long look. "He might have a job for you, Laura."

"Excuse me, ma'ams," squeaked Mary from the doorway. She was a petite blonde, currently the only servant in the Ashfield house. In years past, Laura's parents would have been shocked at the idea; they were used to having nearly a dozen servants to take care of the home and its inhabitants. Over time, that number had dwindled to seven, then to four, and now only Mary remained. They could still afford the girl's meager salary (most of which, Laura knew, she gave to her family), but even that might be more than the Ashfields could manage if the financial situation got much worse.

"Yes, Mary?" Margaret asked.

The girl's hands twisted in her white apron. "Mr. Carl Denham is waiting to see Sir Walter."

Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, and to Mary, Laura said, "Show him to the sitting room, please. I'll be down in a moment."

The girl nodded and hurried back into the hall. Laura took her cigarette case off the window sill and slipped it into the pocket of her white blouse.

"Don't brush him off too quickly, Laura," advised Margaret. "At least hear what he has to say. Things won't get better by themselves."

"If you'll remember, Denham often has crazy ideas, not all of them lucrative."

"Some of them have been," Margaret replied. She picked up a pair of gloves lying on a side-table next to the window and held them out to Laura. "You're forgetting these."

Laura stared back at the gloves, a wrist-length pair made of soft cream-colored leather, the only pair she could stand to wear for an extended amount of time. "He's seen my hands, Mother," she said.

"You should still wear them," Margaret said. She lifted her daughter's right hand and pressed the gloves into her grip.

It was an argument Laura didn't feel like repeating. She considered her hands casualties of war: scarred and gnarled, they looked like they belonged to a woman twice her age. But the price had been worth it, for all the lives they had somehow managed to save. Margaret thought it an awful waste – Laura's hands had been so elegant in her teen years – and she often carried an extra pair of gloves in case Laura left her own behind. Laura often found it simpler to just give in to her mother's sense of vanity.

"I'll go sit with your father while Mr. Denham's here," said Margaret as she moved toward the bedroom. "I'm sure they'll be sorry to miss each other."

Laura didn't doubt that; Sir Walter and Mr. Denham had meshed rather well, with Denham's natural showmanship and Ashfield's down-to-earth practicality. However opposite they were, they complimented each other, and they'd developed a relationship of mutual respect. Laura suspected that Carl had rather reminded Sir Walter of his younger days, when he'd been an officer in the British army, serving in the North-West Frontier of India. Much time had passed since then, but Sir Walter had always appreciated the vivacity of youth, wherever it could be found.

She went into the hallway, where Mary stood at the head of the stairs, which led down into the foyer. The maid's face was flushed. "I didn't know he was a friend of Sir Walter's," she said.

"We used to work for him, up until early last year," Laura explained. "Animal handling and consulting, on-location trapping, anything else he could think for us to do."

"That must have been exciting, being in the movies," Mary said wistfully.

"We were never on screen," Laura replied with an indulgent smile. "Mother wouldn't hear of it." Her mother would also disapprove of being so familiar with the staff, but Laura wanted to be kind to the poor girl. She deserved more than just respect for the hard work she did. She held out the gloves to Mary and added, "Could you put these where Mother won't see them, please?"

"Of course, ma'am," Mary replied. She put the gloves in her pocket; it was not the first time such an exchange had taken place. "Shall I prepare some tea for you and Mr. Denham?"

"Thank you, that would be fine."

They descended the staircase, winding down into the foyer, which opened into the sitting room off to the left. Denham stood near the fireplace, hands in his pockets; he hummed a little tune to himself. For a man whose name was on a list of lawsuits too numerous to count, he seemed quite happy. Mary turned to the right, toward the dining room and the kitchen, while Laura went into the sitting room.

"Hello, Carl," she said as he turned to face her.

She hadn't seen him in over a year – since just before his excursion to the ends of the world – but he appeared to be the same old Carl. His legal situation had done nothing to hinder his wardrobe, or else he had chosen his best suit in which to do his visiting. The suit, a stylish brown affair, was neatly tailored, and his hair looked like it had been prepared by a professional. He smiled when she moved into the room, but that smile didn't reach his eyes, which Laura had always thought were too black and beady for their own good.

He came forward, stretching his arms out as though to hug her, but she preempted him by offering her hand. Without even blinking, he lowered his arms and pumped her hand while the smile grew into a fat grin.

"Laura!" he cried, and it amused her to see that his recent experiences had done little to dampen his natural enthusiasm. "It's so good to see you after all this time. I hope the year's been good to you so far."

"We're managing," she said as he dropped her hand.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday last week," Denham said, "but I have been in and out of meetings for most of the month. I'm putting big things into motion; time waits for no man, especially in the movie business."

"Say no more," Laura said, waving a dismissive hand. "It's quite alright. We didn't do anything special anyway."

"That's too bad," he replied. "You only turn thirty once."

Laura sighed and said, "I'm thirty-four. You know that."

"It's flattery, Laura," said Denham. "It can't be that much of a foreign concept to you."

"You'd be surprised," she answered. She gestured at the chairs situated in front of the fireplace. "Please, sit down."

He did so, choosing the large padded chair by the fireplace; Sir Walter's favorite, in the days when he'd been well enough to sit in it. Denham fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a pipe and a book of matches.

"Do you mind?" he asked, holding up the pipe.

"Not at all," she replied. She sat down on the sofa across from the chair, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees. He didn't so much as glance at her hands, as she had expected. He'd watched those hands work for almost three years; nothing about them could surprise him.

"I haven't seen Will around the city lately," he said as he worked on his pipe. "How is he?"

Laura shrugged and took her cigarette case out of her skirt pocket. Damn the headache; now she just needed a cigarette. "I wouldn't know. Our divorce was finalized six months ago. I heard he went to London."

Denham cleared his throat and tried to look disappointed. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It was for the best," she said, lighting the cigarette. "Our marriage ended a long time ago; there was no reason to keep pretending it was working."

He didn't seem to know what to say to that; fortunately, Mary came into the room carrying a tea service, and the issue of the divorce could be dropped any further fumbling. The tea was poured, the sugar dispensed (a spoonful for each of them), and then Mary was gone, her little feet carrying her swiftly out of the room. Laura tended to her tea with much relish; Mary had chosen to make the more expensive tea they kept for special occasions, and though Laura wouldn't have considered a visit from Denham particularly special, she was thrilled nonetheless.

She inhaled the aroma of the tea before actually drinking it, glancing at Denham as she lowered the cup. Denham took a sip of his own tea and smiled. Laura knew he was indulging her; he'd never been fond of tea, but the ritual was necessary for the guests of the Ashfield family. Sir Walter had grown up believing that tea equaled hospitality, and the tradition had never faltered, even after the family relocated to New York.

"You know," Denham said suddenly, pointing a finger at her, "I think you're starting to lose that accent of yours."

"I must be spending too much time in the land of the Yanks," she replied without humor.

"Have you considered going back to India?"

Her tea cup had been halfway up to her mouth, and she paused, scrutinizing him. Laura had never really been able to tell when Denham was being serious with her, and she wondered if this was supposed to be a joke of some sort.

"I understand your family has money troubles," he said, and she decided it couldn't be a joke because nowadays nobody thought it in good taste to discuss money matters lightly. He read his audience well: he got straight to the point. "I have been given the opportunity to work on a serial set in Bombay, and I need an animal handler. I know your father can't possibly make the trip. I came here to offer the job to you."

Laura set her cup down before she dropped it. He had to know how ridiculous he sounded: she knew of no female wranglers in the business. Carl's own production company had fired her after Sir Walter's doctor ordered him to bed rest. She had served well as her father's assistant, actually doing most of the work because of his disability, the loss of his left arm during the War. But the company had not wanted the liability of promoting her. As one of the producers had put it, "it simply isn't done."

But Denham gazed at her with as serious an expression she had ever seen on him, and she believed the nature of her gender posed no obstacle to him at all. He needed a wrangler, and he had come to the family who had worked so well for him in the past to find one.

Unfortunately, she didn't trust him, and her gender was not the only problem with his proposition.

She lifted her cigarette from the ashtray and asked, "How can you afford it?"

"You're thinking about the Kong incident, right?" he said. Before she could answer, he waved his hands, pushing away all the nonsense of the past six months. "I won't deny that any money I may have is no longer actually my money. I'm broke, Laura, and that's the truth."

She tilted her head. "Do I need to repeat my question?"

He held up a finger, a conciliatory gesture. "There is a certain group here in New York interested in pursuing the greatest game on Earth. And certain persons in this group want to bring their love of their sport to the screen."

"The Orion Society, yes?" Laura asked. She leaned back on the couch, a little more at ease now that she understood what she was actually dealing with.

Denham hesitated. "I – You're not a member, are you?"

"Women are not permitted to join," Laura answered as she tapped the ash off her cigarette. "My father was a member for a short time. He and Mr. Beaufort had something of a disagreement."

"About your potential membership?"

"No." And she left it at that.

He didn't pursue the subject. "Beaufort's backing the project. Really, it's his project; I'm just the man he chose to direct it."

"Beaufort's branching into the movies?" Laura asked, raising an eyebrow. The tycoon had a reputation for banking on risky endeavors, but nothing as fickle as the box office. He rubbed elbows with movie stars, but he didn't do business with them.

"He just bought a partnership with Halcyon Studios," Denham explained, "and he wants to use it to bring the thrill of the hunt to the general audience. Everything's ready to go. It's a small group: a few select members of the Society to play the characters and a limited production crew to do the shooting. The script's written, the arrangements are all made. The only thing we need is a wrangler."

She spread her hands out and said, "And here you are."

"I can't think of anyone who knows Bombay and the surrounding area better than the Ashfields."

"So why not John or Robert?"

Denham gave a guttural chuckle. "We both know John would never agree to do cinema work. And Robert – do you even know where Robert is?"

"No," she admitted.

His arguments about her brothers were valid. John had a family of his own to support in Bombay, but finding steady work had never posed a problem for him. And Denham was right; John hated the film industry, for reasons that he kept to himself. Robert, on the other hand, loved the movies, but he could hardly be considered a reliable employee. The Ashfields hadn't heard from him in months, and even then, all he did was ask for money to cover his gambling debts in Europe.

If Denham wanted an Ashfield, it would have to be Laura.

She took a deep breath and folded her hands into her lap. She said, "No."

His mouth dropped open, and the pipe fell from his lips, tumbling down the front of his suit and onto the floor. He leaned over to pick it up, the astonished look never leaving his face. "But, Laura –"

Laura stood and walked into the foyer, and he jumped up to follow her. Taking his hat from the coat rack, she offered it to him and said, "I'm sorry you had to waste your time coming down here. I can't accept your offer."

"How much longer are you going to be able to support your parents?" he asked.

"That's not your concern." She pushed his hat against his chest, and he reached up to take it.

"It is when you're an old friend of mine," Denham answered. "I can give you money now, a retainer if you want. Beaufort's authorized that."

She went to the front door, opening it for him as he adjusted his hat. "Carl, I'm trying to tell you politely to stay out of our business. You're making it rather difficult."

"We're not leaving for another three weeks," he said as he came to the door. "If you change your mind, call the Orion Society. Please. I know you need the money."

"Goodbye, Carl," she said, offering her hand.

He stared at her a moment, but he saw nothing give in her expression. She was a proud woman; he knew that, but he hadn't expected her to make the decision so quickly. Maybe she wanted to stay in what she thought was her place; maybe she just didn't trust him. Either way, she'd given her answer. But he knew the Ashfields well enough to know that the first answer wasn't always the final one.

"Goodbye, Laura," he said. He gave her hand a good shake and stepped out into the warm afternoon.

She closed the door behind him, hoping she had made the right decision. Bombay had been her home for a total of more than twenty years, and she couldn't deny it she thought about it more and more these days. But she would not go on the payroll of the Society just to return to India.

The whole idea sounded strange: a serial starring a group of men with no acting experience whatsoever, shot by a production team of only a few people? Why would Beaufort put his money into it? Laura suspected the serial wasn't his main reason for employing Denham and heading off to Bombay. Whatever the real reason was, she wanted no part of it.

"He's right," said Margaret, and Laura turned to watch her mother come down the stairway.

"About the money, perhaps," Laura replied. She went back into the sitting room and began putting the tea service back on the platter. "But not the job. I can find work here in the city."

Margaret moved around Laura to help her with the service. "You shouldn't let your pride get in the way of a paying job. You want to go back to Bombay, don't you?"

"What I want doesn't matter," said Laura. "You need me here."

"Let me decide what we need. Think about yourself for once."

"I've made my decision." She reached over to her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Denham will have to find someone else, and I'll have to be more serious about getting a job. Father still has some connections; I'll see what they can do for me."

Nodding, Margaret said, "If you think that's best, dear."

Laura kissed the top of her mother's graying head. "We'll be fine. You'll see."

She picked up the platter and carried it into the kitchen, knowing that her words sounded empty. They'd been repeated so often in the past eighteen months that they no longer seemed to mean anything.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Chapter Two  
June 16, 1934

Laura limped through the front door, her feet sending violent spasms of protest up into her legs as she shuffled into the foyer. It was the third day in a row that she'd decided to walk home instead of take a cab, and she'd hoped that the pain would ease as her body got used to the exercise. Her best heels weren't in the greatest shape, and they certainly had not been made for walking all over New York City in search of a job.

She leaned against the rail of the stairway and decided to wait a while before attempting the stairs. Now that she'd stopped moving, her feet and ankles prickled; it felt like a thousand hot needles covered the insides of her shoes. She hoped she could make it to the sitting room without falling over.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she could actually wear shoes meant for walking. She had two fine pairs of hunting boots sitting in her closet that would never torment her the way heels did, but most people didn't consider them proper attire for job interviews. At least, not for the jobs for which she was applying.

The house was still and quiet, making the sounds of her heels on the hard floor harsher as she hobbled into the sitting room. It was almost seven on a Friday evening; Alice had gone uptown to meet with George and his friends, and she wouldn't come home until midnight. Margaret did not approve of such late nights on the town, but Laura remained indifferent as long as Alice didn't ask for more money.

Margaret usually waited for Laura in the sitting room, but today it was empty. Laura threw herself onto the couch, taking off her little green cap and pulling her brown hair out of its usual bun. Her straight, shoulder-length hairstyle was horribly out of date, but she refused to chop off her hair and plaster it to her head in the waves that were so popular these days. That was fine for girls like Alice, but Laura was a mature divorcee. She felt she had no business trying to imitate younger styles.

Her mother's voice came from the kitchen. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Who else?" Laura called back.

She heard the kitchen door open and close, and then Margaret's footsteps sounded in the foyer with a graceful surety. Laura couldn't help but envy her mother for what seemed like a natural ability to endure the tortures of a high-heeled shoe. It helped that at home one had plenty of opportunities to sit down – not so in the midst of the city.

Margaret swept into the sitting room, looking as fresh as she had that morning when Laura left for the day. A large, unabashed smile lit her face. Laura did all that she could to keep from glaring at her.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

"Smiling?" Margaret said without hesitation. "Am I?"

"Is Dad doing better?"

"No," replied Margaret, and though the smile faltered, it remained as sincere as ever. "I'm afraid not. But, I have a surprise for you. It's in the kitchen."

"Is it steak?"

Now, Margaret's face tightened, and a stern frown replaced the smile. "Laura, you know we don't have the money for steak."

Laura would have laughed if that hadn't been a painful truth. "It was a joke, Mother. I have decided, the day before we run out of food, I'm going to steal the biggest steak I can find, eat in raw, and then jump off the Brooklyn Bridge."

The frown turned into an outright disapproving glare. "I wish you wouldn't say such things. It's morbid."

Laura brushed her bangs against her forehead and reasoned with herself that she certainly felt morbid. Perhaps that was what the looming specter of hunger and unpaid bills did to a person.

Margaret sat at the end of the couch and began taking off Laura's shoes for her. "Still no luck?"

"I'm not quite finished yet," Laura said. She managed a small, insincere smile. "I'll find something before the savings run out."

"Of course you will," said Margaret. Patting Laura's nylon-clad ankles, she dropped the heeled shoes on the floor.

Sighing, Laura wiggled her toes, enjoying the freedom of movement. The prickles began to abate. "I've been thinking," she said slowly. She stared at her toes to avoid her mother's gaze, unsure of how Margaret would react to what she wanted to say. "We should consider selling the house. We can find a smaller one. We can get rid of some of the clutter here; Alice and I could share a room."

Margaret's lips quivered, and she looked away. Laura hated to even mention the possibility of leaving the house; her grandparents had been so proud of the home, the first they could afford in an upper-class neighborhood. Margaret had spent the last of her pre-marriage years here, and it was the only property from her inheritance that she still controlled. Laura knew she'd wanted to leave it in the hands of her own children, to pass down through the generations as a legacy to the Baum family's American dream.

But Laura would not hold on to such idealistic notions, and the fact was that they could not afford the house anymore. Repairs had been prolonged because they simply didn't have the money, and the winter heating had drained more from their savings than Laura had expected. One of the bedrooms and the nursery stood empty, and Alice wouldn't remain in the house much longer, if only that high-browed beau of hers would quit stalling and buy a ring.

"You're right," said Margaret, and her voice sounded far away. She stood up, swaying a little. "Of course, you're right. Who needs a house this size these days anyway? Shall I call Mr. Darcy?"

Laura sat up, grabbing Margaret's arm, partly to steady her and partly because she just wanted the contact. "It's a bit late to do that. I'll call him in the morning. I'll take care of it. You don't need to worry."

Gazing down at her daughter, Margaret looked more focused, and she patted Laura's cheek. "I never worry with you around, dear. You'll keep us going."

"Right," Laura said, letting go of Margaret's arm. "So, no more worries. What about my surprise?"

"Oh!" Margaret cried. Her eyes went wide, and the smile returned to her face, but it had dimmed some. Happiness clung to it, never quite making a complete return. "Just wait here, and I'll run and get it."

As Margaret left the room, Laura lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, trying to will away the aches in her feet and back. The day had ended much like the previous thirteen days: unproductive and tiring. None of her father's friends and acquaintances had any need for her. Some had promised to pass on any openings to her, but she doubted anything would come of it. Secretaries and office girls weren't exactly in high demand, especially if the applicant was the thirty-something daughter of a baronet. That wasn't on her resume, but most of the men she'd met with in the past two weeks knew it, and a few even held it against her. She'd long ago given up explaining that baronets weren't even nobility, because nobody ever listened to her.

Having exhausted her father's business connections, she'd have to look elsewhere. Tutoring might be the only option left to her; there were still plenty of wealthy young ladies in need of French lessons living in New York. She'd taught in Bombay for a few years before marrying Will, and she would do it again if she had to. But all the bright, shining faces of the little heiresses, hopeful in the promises of their futures – the thought of it depressed her.

Footsteps in the foyer again, but this time, they were heavier and belonged to a flat sole rather than a heel. They stopped in the sitting room's entryway, replaced by the rumble of a man clearing his throat. The smell of men's cologne tickled her nose. When she opened her eyes, it took a moment for her to recognize the man as her brother Robert.

The last time she had seen him, he'd been thinner and paler, the result of living the life of a rather unsuccessful playboy in Paris. Now, he filled out his stylish suit nicely, though he didn't have the typical athletic Ashfield frame. Robert preferred gambling on sporting events to actually participating in them. His dark hair, slicked back into a shiny cap, gave him an aristocratic air, aided by the smooth lines of his jaw. Many women thought him handsome, and when he cleaned himself up, Laura could begin to understand why.

"Good Lord," she said, sitting up on the couch. "Look at you. You look almost civilized."

"That's a fine way to greet me," replied Robert. "It's only been three years, after all."

"How much money do you need? We don't have any, you know."

He smiled, but she could tell it hurt him. It didn't feel as satisfying as she thought it would. "Actually," he said, "I'm here to give you money."

That startled her, and it put her on guard. Since entering and flunking out of college, Robert had made a career of spending money, even when he had none of his own. Never in his twenty-five years had he offered to repay any of the money he had borrowed – God knew how much the Ashfields had given to him. Only when their own finances had hit bottom had Sir Walter refused to continue paying for his vices.

"I'm finding that hard to believe," she said after a moment.

"I've got a job, Laura!" he cried. He leapt over to the couch and pulled her into an embrace that she didn't return. "A real job, not like the ones I had in college."

She remembered those jobs well, and she also remembered Sir Walter bailing him out of jail a few times. Pulling away from him, she said, "I still find that hard to believe."

"Understandable," he replied. He stood over her, and she disliked being so much lower than him. She rose from the couch, stepping away a bit to make some breathing room. "This one's different," he continued. "A film job, in Bombay of all places! It's completely legit."

Laura's eyes narrowed. "You're dealing with Carl Denham, aren't you?"

"Yes," Robert said earnestly. Off Laura's glare, he added, "What's wrong?"

She stared at him, scrutinizing his suit. "Is that new?"

"You like?" Robert grinned and turned around, modeling the suit with his hands on his hips. A fine-looking suit it was, no doubt tailor-made of the finest product. "It was just finished today. A little tight around the waist, but I can attest that to the fine lunch Carl insisted on having."

Laura grabbed him by the lapels of that fine new suit and gave them a twist. "Tell me you didn't take any money from him."

"Easy," he said. He grabbed her hands and attempted to pry them off the fabric. She should be careful, a suit like this wasn't meant to be manhandled – She gave him a shake to let him know she was still attached and still mighty interested in getting an answer to her question. "I wouldn't say I took it from him. I mean, he gave me a check. How could I say no to Carl?"

"You fool," Laura said. She shoved him away, and he fell back a few steps. He smoothed his lapels, pleased to see that she hadn't done any real damage. Laura pressed a palm to her forehead, her anger now spent and replaced by a sense of resignation. "Why did you have to accept his money?"

"We need the money," Robert said. She shifted her gaze to his suit. "I didn't spend it all. We can pay off Dad's doctor bills. I can pay off some of that money I owe to Arthur. And this was just a retainer; we'll get more as soon as we leave for India."

Laura held out a hand, pressing her palm against his chest. "What?"

"He didn't specify how much we'd be getting, but it should be a fine amount with the both of us going."

"You told Denham that I would go to India with the Society?"

"He seemed to think that you didn't want to go."

"I don't."

"But," Robert said, and then he paused, trying to determine the problem. He sat down on the couch and gazed up at her with confused brown eyes. "You've never been fond of New York. Mother says you want to go back to Bombay."

"I do," she replied, sitting next to him. "But not like this."

"You've worked with Denham before."

"He's not the issue. The Society is the issue."

"Oh," he said, and the expression on his face suggested that he didn't understand at all what she meant.

Laura patted his knee. "I don't know who's crazier: you or Denham. Trusting Beaufort is like trusting a snake not to have any venom when it bites you."

"He's not the first businessman to put his interest in the movies."

"But in a serial? It's ridiculous."

Something else troubled her, though she would not mention to Robert. He had none of the experience that she and John had with Bombay. He'd been only five when they left India at the onset of the Great War, hardly old enough to begin seriously taking up hunting.

No doubt he'd hunted some with his upper crust friends in England – where the fashionable set planned its year around the hunting seasons – but that could not be compared to sitting up all night in a stand waiting for tiger. She didn't know if Robert had ever even seen a live tiger in the wild. If he was to be the Society's handler, Laura was concerned for the safety of the group. She'd have made a solid bet that Denham had only used Robert as bait for her.

He knew her well enough to suspect it would work. She wouldn't take the money herself, so she wouldn't have seen what she could do with it. Robert refused money from no one, and he'd already demonstrated that all he knew was hot to spend that money on himself. Their father was dying, and he went out and thought nothing of buying a new suit. Could she really allow herself to put the fate of the family in his hands?

"Goddamn it," she muttered. "What else can I do?"

"You'll go?" he asked eagerly. He looked, for a moment, like the little boy he had once been, begging to be included in the Matheran camping trips Sir Walter used to take the two older children on.

"Well," she said. "At least I'll be going home."

Robert whooped and jumped off the couch, lifting Laura up with him. She cried out in surprise as he grabbed her by the waist and whirled her into the foyer. He swung her around and around, dancing to music that couldn't be heard, and it took all of Laura's will not to vomit her meager lunch all over his new suit.

* * *


	3. Interlude 1

You'll see several of these interludes along the way. I'm using them mostly as exercises to give a little insight into the characters. The first few focus on Laura, but there will be some later for other characters.

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Interlude One: Go You There, Beyond the Ranges

"'Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges –  
'Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!'"  
– Rudyard Kipling, "The Explorer"

June 22, 1934

Tomorrow, Laura would be on her way to India, and she did not want to be excited.

To remind her of what she was leaving behind, after dinner, she went up to the master bedroom to say goodbye to her father.

He slept, lost in the fitful dreams of the cancerous pain that never released his body. Dr. Bartholomew had prescribed morphine for him, but some days, nothing helped. He moved in and out of lucidity, and on good days, he could sit up and enjoy conversations with his family.

Today was not one of his good days. He stirred not at all as she pulled over the chair from the corner writing desk and sat down in it next to the bed. She didn't want to wake him, and she didn't know if he would ever wake again. More than anything else, the thought of him dying in her absence disturbed her. She knew she might be saying goodbye to him for the last time.

She took his limp right hand into hers, showing no reaction to the now familiar clammy touch. On the other side of his body was the empty space where his left arm should have been. He'd worn a false limb since 1915, but Dr. Bartholomew had suggested removing it while he remained in bed-rest. He didn't need it anyway.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said to him. "I keep telling myself that I shouldn't be happy, because I can't trust Denham and Beaufort. But it's Bombay. I'm going home."

His eyelids fluttered but did not open. She didn't know what else to say to him, so she told him about the plans they had been making for the trip to India.

The filming would not be done in Bombay. The city was an island metropolis – Denham fondly called it the New York of India – and Beaufort naturally wanted jungle for the serial. Laura had suggested going to Matheran, one of the hill stations in the mountains around Bombay. The population favored Indians over Europeans, and tourism would be low because of the monsoon season. Beaufort took to the idea immediately; within two days, he'd used his connections to rent a large bungalow for the crew.

Laura had expected a larger crew. The two other Society men were Major Windridge, a portly old soldier with gin blossoms, and MacNamara, a balding little hump of a man who doubled as Denham's sound recordist. Apparently, he had been the connection between Beaufort and Denham. Both men had the looks of armchair hunters, and neither of them looked like cinema material, serial or otherwise. She supposed Beaufort – tall, muscular, and handsome in the cultured manner of New York businessmen – would be the focus of the camera.

Also joining them was Beaufort's niece, a British-born girl named Bridget Elmund. Laura had not yet met her, but Robert assured her that the girl was young and fresh and quite excited about the whole thing. This did not put Laura at ease. Neither did the presence of Denham's current assistant, a ratty-looking young man who went by the name Culpeper. He looked more like a con-man than a director's assistant.

And that was it, the whole of Denham's crew. He hadn't even a cameraman, insisting that he wanted to do all the shooting personally. This was not unusual – Denham's best work was done by his own hand – but he usually had a man on hand to take on some of the burden. Laura knew that Herb Cooper had died on Skull Island, an unfortunate loss indeed. Maybe nobody wanted to be his replacement.

The whole set-up made her nervous, and she had her doubts that Beaufort's interest in the serial went any deeper than his own love for the hunt. He couldn't seriously expect to make much money off a serial driven by such a limited amount of manpower.

But that was not her problem. Beaufort had enough money; he could throw it away on whatever pleased him. She'd get her check whether Beaufort got his payoff or not.

"The money's good," she told Sir Walter. "Mom and Alice won't have to worry about starving, and if Dr. Bartholomew decides you need an operation, they'll be able to afford it. I'll be gone a long time though."

Her voice broke, and she was suddenly aware that her eyes stung with unshed tears. Her vision blurred as she tried to stop them, but nothing could hold them back. They slid from the corners of her eyes, finding different tracks down her face until her cheeks felt cold and crusted. She leaned forward, rubbing her father's hand against her damp chin, and she let the sobs come. She couldn't remember the last time she had cried so freely.

It took her several minutes to get it all out, and she had to let go of Sir Walter's hand to find a handkerchief folded on the table next to his bed. She wiped her eyes and cheeks before taking care of her nose and picking up his hand again.

"Don't die," she said. "Don't die without me."

In the back of her mind, she recognized how foolish the request was. She asked it of him because she thought she could keep him alive just by being near him – that his strength would drain away the longer she remained from him. For so long, she had been his crutch, carrying the burden for him, whether it be the physical weight of his rifle or the mental weight of keeping his family alive. She understood that he would die with or without her.

But she didn't care. She just didn't care.

He coughed, and his lips moved with dusty whisperings. She put her hands on his thin shoulders and leaned down over him, trying to make out the words.

"Something lost," he muttered, and his thick tongue ran over his cracked lips. He writhed weakly under her hands, his face contorting into a grimace.

"What's lost?" she asked.

"Beyond the Ranges. Something lost –."

His eyes opened, and for the first time in many days, Laura saw clarity in them. He gazed at her, and his hand gripped her wrist, stronger than it had been in years. The intensity in his face startled her, and she tried to pull away; he held her in place, fingers digging into her skin.

"Over yonder," he said, and his eyes never left hers. "Go you there!"

"What?" she said. He actually scared her; the crazy light in his eyes – brown eyes that looked so like her own – didn't belong there. She tried to pry his fingers off her wrist, but he gripped her so tight she feared he might break something. "I don't – lie down, you'll hurt yourself."

"_Go you there_!" he shouted, and then he fell back against his pillow, his energy spent. His eyes closed, and his breathing slowed.

Laura stared at him, amazed at how quick the madness had come and gone from him. She wondered if she had imagined it.

But the marks of his fingers on her wrist stood out in thick, red lines, and the next morning, bruises had appeared. Though they faded, the soreness remained for several days. For the first half of their journey on the _Juliette_, Laura could look at her hand and feel again the vice-like grip of a hand that for weeks had been unable to hold a spoon.

And at night, while drifting to sleep with the rocking of the boat, she would hear the echo of his voice and the fierce demand he had made of her.

And she wondered what it was he wanted her to find.

* * *


	4. Chapter 3

This chapter was longer than I intended it to be, and it's not very good.

Thanks to my reviewers! I worry that the story is boring most of its readers; I'll try to avoid that with future chapters.

* * *

Chapter Three  
September 18, 1934  
Matheran, 50 miles east of Bombay, India

The rifle felt good in her hands – better than that, it felt right. It fit in the crook of her arm, the warmth of it comforting even through the sleeve of her tan-colored blouse. She lifted it so that it ran parallel to her hip, and it became an extension of her. Every day for the past five weeks, she had held the rifle against her like this, and each time, it convinced her that she was right where she should be.

The antelope stood alone in a small clearing in the jungle, munching contentedly on a patch of grass. Diagonal to it, Laura knelt in silence and removed the safety on her rifle. She'd stalked the young male since he left his herd group, which had moved out of the clearing almost a minute earlier. His ears perked to the side, but he had yet to come aware of Laura's presence.

She was reluctant to take the kill, but that didn't stop the rush of blood in her veins, pounding in her ears and across her temple. To know that she was close enough to smell the creature's musky scent and still be invisible to it put a smile on her lips. Her heart beat faster as she settled her gun into a ready position.

Antelope was not the quarry today. She had personally shot three of the animals since they arrived in Matheran five weeks earlier, and Beaufort had declared them an unworthy challenge for himself and the two other Society men. For the past three weeks, all of their attention focused on bagging the fiercest prey to be found in the mountains of India.

Antelope they had seen plenty of; tiger had yet to show its deadly face.

Giggling, behind her and off to the right, disrupted the silence. The antelope's ears twitched, and muscles rippled under its light brown coat. Laura raised the gun, but the antelope vanished before she could get off a shot.

_Ah, well_, she thought, lowering the rifle and flicking the safety back into place. _Antelope's not why we're out here anyway._

Slinging the rifle across her back, Laura turned away from the clearing and headed south, back to where she had left Robert and Miss Elmund taking a rest. She didn't doubt that the giggling had belonged to Beaufort's young niece.

Bridget Elmund was a slender, pretty girl of only seventeen years. Laura had taken one look at the big blue eyes and dollish black curls and knew that the responsibility of looking after the teenager would fall on her shoulders. The men dismissed Bridget with verbal pats on the head and indulgent smiles, prompting her to approach Laura with an endless string of questions about what they were doing and where they were going. She'd grown up in the sheltered life of British nobility; her trip to New York had been her first outside the British Isles. Her tongue could barely keep up with the questions that plagued her brain.

Normally, such curiosity would have pleased Laura – girls these days seemed complacent to be dim-witted and dogmatic rather than educated, even in New York – but Bridget served only as a distraction in the jungle. Beaufort handed his niece over to Laura as though he had hired her for the specific purpose of being Bridget's chaperone.

She told herself that it didn't matter. The money was her only concern, and she'd done what she considered her job. When they arrived in Matheran, she'd made contact with Salman Inam, a friend of her father's dating back to the turn of the century. Because of her influence, he'd agreed to be the group's _shikari_, their jungle guide, and he'd gone to the village to hire Indian bearers for the hunters. Together, they'd spoken to the locals about the season's game, particularly any tiger that might have been spotted in the area. Most of their time had been spent tracking animals for the hunters to shoot, and they'd supervised the building of a stand, a standard practice for hunting in the jungle. Laura had taken on the task of scouting for game near the stand and driving it toward the hunters, a technique that she did found lazy and amateurish, but the Americans seemed to like it.

All of this was work that Robert, as the Society's primary handler, should have done from the start. It suited everyone to pretend that he earned his pay, though all he'd done for the past three months was provide the hunters with a jolly companion who bet heavily at card games. Beaufort had made it clear to the Ashfields that they were here only at Denham's behest.

Laura had beaten a small path into the jungle from the stand clearing, and

"Any tiger out there?" Bridget asked.

Laura winced but did not chastise the girl. Many who knew the jungle well – and Laura included herself in this group because the lore had been passed to her so often as a child that it was now ingrained in her – did not say the name of the tiger aloud. As Salman had told her and John often in their younger years: "never speak his name, for you may find you have summoned him out of the jungle." Bridget would no doubt find the superstition amusing, and Laura had already tired of her giggling.

"It's quiet," she said. "We should get back to the stand. Evening's coming on, and I think it'll bring rain with it. I'd prefer to be at the bungalow when it starts."

She spoke of rain only as incentive to get them moving. The monsoon season was coming to an end; the rains now came later and lighter. Laura had thought Denham would have completed his filming by this time – normally he was efficient and not so inclined to linger – but he showed no indication that he thought the serial completed. He had been picky with his shots, expressing discontent with nearly each day's work. Laura tried to stay as uninvolved as possible.

"I'm all for it," said Robert as he stood up. He offered a hand to Bridget and helped her to her feet. She rewarded him with a shy smile, but he had already returned his attention to Laura. "I'll bet Mama Jas already has dinner started."

He began to move away from her, but Laura grabbed his sleeve. "Wait," she said. "I want to talk to you."

Robert motioned to Bridget. "Just stay on the trail. Remember?"

She nodded and ducked her head, black curls dancing about her chin. Without a sound, she turned and moved down the path.

"No luck?" asked Robert.

"Another antelope flees for its life," Laura said. "It's a good thing we're not hunting for food. We'd all be starved by now."

"I thought you were a better hunter than this."

Laura frowned. "I do fine when I'm not being followed by giggling tourists."

If Robert was offended, it didn't show. He said, "Miss Elmund's bored. I was just trying to entertain her with a few jokes."

"She should have thought about that before she convinced Beaufort to bring her all the way out here. As for your jokes, I hope you're doing an adequate job of censoring yourself. I won't have you responsible for ruining her sensibilities."

"Not all of my jokes are dirty jokes, Laura," he replied.

Chuckling, he unhooked his canteen from his belt to take a swig from it. She snatched the canteen from his hands and held it up to her nose, taking a long whiff. A scowl darkened her face, and keeping her eyes on Robert, she hooked the canteen onto her belt, next to her own.

Robert held out a hand. "Can I have that back?"

"You want it back, you'll have to give me your gun," she replied. She walked past him, following the thin little path that would lead them back to the stand.

He followed her, doing nothing to mask the sounds of his movement. "I'm not doing that."

"Then you'll have to do without the whiskey. I warned you about this. Several times, I believe."

"Three times just last night," he agreed.

"I don't care if you drink yourself blind, but I'll be damned if I'll let you carry a loaded weapon in that condition."

Sulking, he changed the subject. "Why are you so concerned about her anyway?"

She didn't even look back at him. "As the only other woman in this party, it's my duty. She hasn't exactly had any experience with men like you."

"And you've had too much."

Laura turned on him so sharply that, for a moment, he actually thought she might hit him. God knew, she'd done it before. He wasn't so sure he didn't deserve it.

The jungle went quiet and still. A rumbling sound filtered through the trees, a throaty growl that could belong to only one creature. It continued steadily off to their right, moving south, close enough to cause Laura's heart to tighten in her chest. In unison, the siblings readied their rifles, and Robert looked to Laura with a mixed expression of fear and confusion.

_Bridget_, she mouthed to him and pointed a finger in the girl's direction. She'd stopped not far away to admire a patch of flowers. Looking back at Laura and Robert, her eyes were wide and very young.

Robert shook his head, and she pushed him further down the trail. Extending her arm to the east, she jabbed at the air, hoping that he would understand that she wanted him to take Bridget away from the Society's stand. The tiger would head for the bait: a live goat that Salman and Laura had procured that morning.

Mouth agape, he stared at her, and she would have hit him if she thought he would've kept silent. Instead, she grabbed his hand and led him to Bridget, choosing her steps with care. Light filtering through the trees caught the tiger's orange coat, and it ambled along, showing no concern for the three humans nearby. It walked past them, no more than eight meters from the path, and continued on its way. Bridget stood frozen, her hands clasped tightly at her stomach, but her eyes moved across the underbrush.

"Where is it?" she whispered.

With a severe shake of her head, Laura held a finger to her lips. She let go of Robert and mouthed, _Stay here._

Nodding, Robert put an arm around Bridget's shoulders; she looked anything but scared. Her eager eyes searched the jungle, and she stood up on her toes to see further.

Part of Laura's job was to make sure the client got the animal he wanted, but even if that hadn't been the case, she would have followed the tiger. The hunter in her demanded it. With Robert staring at her as though she had lost her mind, she continued down the path and hoped she hadn't lost the tiger to the jungle.

She went only a few meters – Robert and Bridget disappeared in the branches of the lower canopy – before she found the tiger again. It had stopped to urinate and mark the area. The stench made Laura's nose wrinkle up in protest. The tiger lingered, nosing about in the underbrush and pawing at something on the ground. They weren't far from the stand now; if the tiger continued drifting south, the goat would be sure to attract its attention.

She took a step forward, and the tiger turned its head, its mouth opening slightly. Surely it had seen her, and sweat broke out along her brow as she calculated the distance between them. If she was quick, she could hit it, but her aim would have to be flawless. If she missed – and that was possible even at this range – she wouldn't get another shot. Its bright eyes glowed in the shadow, and it began to turn in her direction. Laura held her breath and forced herself to keep the gun low. If she shot now, it would be over for her.

The goat at the stand bleated, and the tiger's ears cocked in that direction. Without hesitation, it trotted to the south, skulking away from Laura. She breathed in again slowly and followed it, making sure her boots stayed on the slender thread of the path to avoid making too much noise.

It didn't matter. The tiger had chosen its prey, and now it darted between the trees in anticipation. Laura lost sight of it, and then she heard shouts from the stand, the Indian bearers shouting in excited Hindi.

She ran, her hunting skirt restricting her to short but quick strides. Ahead, the goat's bleatings became shriller, and then the roar of the tiger drowned out everything.

The stand's clearing opened up before her, and the first thing she saw was the tiger crouched over its kill. The smell of its musky hide permeated the air as it held the broken, bloodless body of the goat in its paws. It looked up at the men in the hide and growled at them; Denham stood with the camera rolling while MacNamara leaned over the side with what Laura suspected was a microphone. None of the bearers moved.

_Why isn't anyone shooting it?_ she thought, and then she saw Beaufort moving out of the jungle near the stand, his rifle at the ready.

Denham was about to get his climatic scene. Beaufort advanced; he could take the shot at any time, but Laura suspected he wanted to wait for his big moment.

He got within four meters of the creature before it made its move. In an orange blur, the tiger got to its feet and leapt at Beaufort, its growl drowning out the shouts of the men. Beaufort disappeared from Laura's view, eclipsed by the body of the tiger as it sailed through the air.

Beaufort's gun went off at the last possible moment, later than Laura had expected. The tiger landed on him, knocking him to the ground, and the big man gave a sharp cry of pain. The two lay on the ground, unmoving, and the heady, unmistakable scent of blood filled the clearing.

Denham and MacNamara scrambled down from the stand, but Laura got to Beaufort first, her rifle fixed on the tiger. It was still, no breath moving in and out of it. She knelt next to Beaufort, dropped her rifle, and pushed the body off him, half-expecting to find him wounded or dead.

He stared up at her, his arms crossed over his chest, his gun lying in the dirt beside him. Blood covered his arms and neck, but none of it belonged to him. His hat had fallen off, and his sandy-blond hair lay plastered against his sweaty, dirty brow.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

The shocked, distant look in his eyes vanished at once, replaced by the hard, superior glare that she had always associated with him. He pushed the body all the way off him and sat up; he stared at the wound in the tiger's chest, a gaping mess of blood and matted fur.

"Of course I am," he replied harshly. "I killed it, didn't I?"

Frowning, Laura stood up and backed away. She intended to tell him that he had almost waited too long to do it, but then the men from the stand converged on them, Denham leading the way.

"Fantastic!" Denham cried. He leaned down and grasped Beaufort's hand, pumping it with vigor. Beaufort used it to pull himself to his feet, nearly dragging Denham to the ground. "It's exactly what we needed, Henry; it was perfect."

"Didn't I tell you it would be?" Beaufort replied. The Americans gathered around him, heaping praise upon him with wide grins and high voices. Beaufort stood with his shoulders squared and his head high, a self-appointed king among lesser men.

Laura stepped aside, separating herself from the hero and his worshippers. The hired Indians surrounded the tiger and whispered among themselves. Salman – old and wiry and dressed like the white men – knelt over the tiger to make his inspection. He treated the dead creature with gentle respect, and he spoke to it in soft Hindi tones.

Robert and Bridget emerged from the jungle and jogged over to the group. Bridget's smile brightened her pink face, and she threw her arms around her uncle in a celebratory hug. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist and though he still didn't smile, he gazed down at her with obvious affection. She was the only person he allowed to come so close to him.

"He finally got what he came for," Robert said as he joined Laura. "Why doesn't he look happier?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Laura replied.

"Does this mean we're done here?"

"Of course not!" Denham cried. He shook Robert's hand like he'd had something to do with the killing of the tiger. "Lots more to do," Denham added, "you can count on that."

Denham steered Robert toward Beaufort, going on about the plans he had for the serial's plot and how he wanted to fit in a part for Robert. Laura thought her brother looked far too pleased with that idea.

"Laura," Salman called to her softly and crooked a finger at her. She moved around the group of men to crouch next to him. He adjusted the head so she could get a better view of it.

She saw at once what he intended her to see. Blue film clouded the tiger's left eye: a cataract. It explained why the tiger hadn't attacked her in the jungle; she doubted it had even seen her. It had probably waited to leap at Beaufort for much the same reason.

Laura touched the gray fur around its muzzle. "How old do you think he was?"

"Hard to be sure," replied Salman. "But he's an old man. Probably didn't have much time left anyway." He laid the head back on the ground and wiped his hands on his trousers. "You know what I think?"

"Beaufort got lucky."

Salman furrowed his eyebrows until his bushy white eyebrows met. "The gods smiled on him today. He should be dead."

"Don't tell him that."

The Americans laughed at something Robert said; only Beaufort maintained his lordly silence. He stared at the jungle, the smug expression on his handsome face a badge of triumph over the wilds it contained.

The rains came in the evening, bringing early sunset and a heavy wind with them. Despite the kill he brought from the jungle, Beaufort maintained a moody silence through dinner, and nobody dared to start a conversation for fear of upsetting him. Even Denham remained quiet and pensive, as though he was trying to work something out in his head.

After dinner, the men retired to the library for cigars and brandy while Laura and Bridget sat on the porch and watched the rain. After a short time, Salman strolled out from the house and stood next to Laura at the railing.

In Hindi, he said, "Leaving soon."

Laura glanced over at Bridget. The girl sat curled up on one of the cushioned benches, her attention entirely on the paperback novel she read. Looking back at Salman, Laura said, also in Hindi, "Are you? Why?"

"Not me. You."

Frowning, she said, "How do you know?"

"Being invisible has its advantages." He paused and shook his head. In the porch's dim lamp light, he looked gray and dull. Laura realized he wasn't that much younger than her father. "Don't trust the big one, _memsahib_. He is looking for death."

"If he's doing that, why is he planning on leaving?"

"He didn't find it here."

She couldn't imagine where else he might look if the tiger had not made him happy. The mystique that surrounded the creature made it a worthy opponent in most hunters' eyes, but Beaufort treated the kill as though it was simply his right. Laura herself had killed only five tigers, all before she left Bombay in 1926, but the experiences had remained among her most memorable. To know that only her senses and her ability with a gun were all that kept her safe made her shiver even when she was sitting comfortably at home. The animals she had taken were all healthy and large; any one of them could have turned out to be a better hunter than she. It was that risk that made the hunt so thrilling.

Apparently, that wasn't enough for Beaufort. But Laura could think of nothing that might rival the situation he had already survived.

She knew men who obsessed over the hunt, who wanted nothing more than to find the next deadly opponent and prove who the better hunter was. Some men lived only for that rush of adrenaline, only to crave it more and more when the hunt ended and the blood stopped racing. It could drive a person mad.

But Beaufort seemed such a man of control; she had seen none of the fanaticism in him. Had Salman seen it? He knew hunters as well as he knew the prey; perhaps he had recognized something in Beaufort that Laura didn't.

"Thank you, Salman. Will you go back to Bombay with us?"

"No. I'm not so young anymore. It's time I stayed where I belong."

"I wish I could too."

"The young must keep moving and keep seeing. You'll know when you're ready to settle."

She hugged him, and he felt small and frail in her arms. The days when he had been stronger and taller than her had long passed, but they returned to Laura like waking dreams. She owed her life to this man and what he had taught her about the jungle.

_They're leaving me_, she thought as she watched him descend from the porch and melt into the shadows. Like a cat, he did not look back. _These men, who taught me to take care of myself, have nothing left to teach me_.

She went to the room she shared with Bridget and took off her shoes and nylons. She made no noise as she went back to the main part of the house, moving down the library's wing. The wooden floor was cool and smooth against her feet. The servants had opened doors and windows to let in the evening breeze, and it ruffled the skirt of her pale blue dinner dress against her legs.

Only Denham and Beaufort remained in the library, and she caught them in the middle of a tense silence. She leaned against the wall next to the open door and waited.

Denham, not content to let Beaufort sit in languor, spoke first.

"What's the matter, Henry? Don't you like Matheran?"

"This isn't a goddamned vacation," Beaufort replied. "We came out here for a reason, and now I'm done with it. We're moving to phase two."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? We might not be ready."

"I'm ready. And I happen to be the financier of this trip."

"We should at least discuss it with the Ashfields."

"No. We don't need them, Carl."

"You don't know what you'll be up against. Maybe we could do without Robert, but Laura will be good to have around. I won't go without them."

One of them struck a match, and then Laura could smell one of the fat Cuban cigars that Beaufort favored. She could imagine him staring at Denham, gauging him.

"Are you scared, Carl?"

Denham laughed, but it sounded nervous and thin. "I'd be crazy not to be."

"You can't back out now."

"I'm not going to. I want to go. But there are things you have to understand. This isn't going to be like anything else you've encountered."

"This is precisely why I'm going. Inam is making the arrangements. In less than a week, we'll be back on the _Juliette_, and we can put the play-acting behind us."

A pause. Laura wondered how bruised Carl's ego was. He was used to calling the shots, to being the big man in charge. But he had not worked under the likes of Beaufort, and this was beginning to sound less like a movie enterprise and more like an extended hunting expedition.

But to where? Wasn't Skull Island somewhere in the Indian Ocean? Could either one of these men be crazy enough to plan a return trip to Kong's home? Research teams were fighting over who could get there first – with or without various government grants – but she'd not heard of a hunting party taking interest in the Island.

Carl said, "I still think we should talk to the Ashfields."

"In due time. For now, let's worry about getting there first."

For several minutes, they sat and said nothing. Laura left before either of them decided to call it a night. In their room, Bridget was already in bed, not quite asleep but drifting. She'd shown no fear of the tiger, alive or dead, and she'd happily posed for pictures of it with the Americans. As far as she was concerned, her uncle was a hero.

Laura prepared for bed, going over Beaufort and Denham's conversation. The more she thought about it, the surer she was that Skull Island was their ultimate destination. She didn't know many precise details about the first trip, but she knew enough to understand the dangers involved with the Island. She couldn't afford to take those risks, not with Alice and her parents still reliant on her support.

As she slipped into her bed and pulled closed the mosquito netting, she resolved not to mention her suspicions to anyone. She could leave at any time; perhaps that time had come. She would take the money owed to her and go back to New York. Or maybe she'd remain in Bombay and stay with John's family for a while. She wouldn't linger for long; Salman was right about traveling. Settling down wasn't on her mind now. And when she did settle, it wouldn't be in Bombay. The city held too many memories for her to be happy there.


	5. Interlude 2

Chapter Four is not coming along as well as I would like, so here's an interlude instead. It's actually something I cut from Chapter Three because it was just too long. I liked the scene well enough that I didn't want to trash it forever, so here it is.

Again, thanks to my reviewers and all my readers!

* * *

Interlude Two: An Assembly in His Honor  
"Drink deep, Shere Khan, for when will you drink again? Sleep and dream of the kill."  
- Rudyard Kipling, "The Jungle Book" 

September 18, 1934  
Matheran Hill Station

Denham insisted that they all pose for the pictures, and he filmed them as they arranged themselves for the camera. Culpeper took the photographs, several of them to make sure that at least one came out well. Laura stood at one edge with Salman and hoped she would get cut out. Robert joined Beaufort and Bridget in the middle, grinning like he did this sort of thing all the time.

They did this on the porch of the bungalow, after the tiger had been carried out from the jungle by the bearers. Later, the Americans stood on the front lawn, smoking and laughing – except for Beaufort. He went inside to use the telephone.

Salman and Laura stayed with the tiger and took its measurements for posterity. Bridget watched in fascination.

"What will be done with it?" she asked.

"We'll have it sent to Bombay," said Salman, "to a good taxidermist I know. He'll skin it and prepare the hide and ship it to Mr. Beaufort's estate in New York."

"He probably has a room for that kind of thing," Laura said.

"He does," Bridget replied. She crouched, a hand wrapped across her legs to keep her skirt from brushing the ground. "It's so beautiful. And bigger than I imagined."

"You can touch him if you like," Salman said.

Bridget's fingers uncurled and she ran her hand down the tiger's back. She petted him, as though he was nothing more than a sleeping cat.

Kneeling next to the tiger, Salman lifted the head and opened the mouth, peering at the teeth.

"I didn't realize they had such large teeth," Bridget said.

Salman smiled and opened the tiger's mouth wider. He stuck his index finger next to one of the big canine teeth; the tip of the tooth stuck over the edge of his grimy finger. "Not quite ten centimeters," he said admirably. "Some get bigger than that, but that's a pretty good size for this old man."

Laura made a note of the measurement.

"I suppose that's what makes them so dangerous," Bridget said, "with teeth like that."

"It's the whole package you have to worry about," replied Laura. "All of his 'fearful symmetry,' so to speak. Their size is their greatest weapon. The teeth are just one part of it."

Salman tapped the tip of the tooth and said, "What he'll do, you see, is get the victim into a suffocation bite around the neck and choke the life out of it. Even an animal larger than him won't be able to fight him; if it's an animal like a gaur – one of those wild walking beefsteaks you see wandering about – he'll sneak up behind it and get it by surprise. For smaller prey, he'll just break the back, and it's over real quick."

Bridget grimaced, but her eyes glowed with excitement rather than fear. "It must be messy."

"Not usually," Laura said with a shrug. "Most times, the kill is clean, and the only evidence you can find is a bit of trampled grass. The less blood, the less chance of attracting scavengers and other predators."

"But those teeth –"

"A creature only bleeds while its heart is still beating," Salman explained. "A tiger kills so quickly that she leaves little blood behind her. What she'll usually do is carry the kill away from the place where she attacked it."

"Oh," the girl said.

She must have run out of questions for the time being; they went about their work as she watched them, her arms resting on her knees. Using his index finger as an impromptu measuring stick, Salman rattled off number after number, pausing only long enough for Laura to scribble them onto her little yellow pad. It was just something to keep them busy, and Laura doubted anyone would find the information worth keeping.

When they finished, they remained in their kneeling positions around the tiger. Bridget continued to pet it.

"Was it a man-eater?" she asked.

"No," Salman said. "It came for the goat. It only attacked Mr. Beaufort because it felt threatened."

"I didn't really believe they attacked humans, but it's true, isn't it?"

Laura shrugged and put her pad and pencil into her little hunting pack. "It's a consequence of cohabitation. Some animals seem to make humans their preferred prey. Over in the Himalayas, a hunter named Corbett shot a tigress reputed to have killed over four hundred people."

"Really?"

"Only a man like Corbett could catch an animal like her. If Heller had tried his hand at it, he'd have gotten an arm bit off for the trouble."

Salman laughed at that.

"Have you ever seen a tiger kill a person?" Bridget asked.

The _shikari_'s laughter stopped abruptly, and without a word, he stood up and walked away from the two women. Laura massaged the bridge of her nose.

"I'm sorry," Bridget said. "Should I not have asked that?"

"You didn't know," replied Laura. "A tiger killed his brother when they were just boys. The tiger would have attacked him if his brother hadn't intervened."

"Oh." She glanced at the other end of the porch, where Salman had been stopped by Beaufort, who had just come out of the bungalow. The two men were deep in discussion. "Is that why he hunts tiger?"

"He hunts tiger because he's good at it, and he's good at it because he loves the jungle and he's learned to listen to it." Laura got to her feet and offered her hand to Bridget; the girl used it to stand up. "Don't believe he's out here for revenge. If anything, he's trying to accept his fear."

"He seems so sure of himself."

"A good hunter is not fearless, Bridget. Nor does he conquer his fear. He must realize that the fear is a part of him and will always be a part of him. Fear keeps a man alive; it keeps him aware of his surroundings, and it keeps him from thinking he has won."

Bridget frowned and watched Laura throw a tarp over the tiger's body. "But hasn't he?"

"This time perhaps. But a good hunter always knows that the next time may not turn out the same."

Putting her arm around Bridget, Laura led her to the edge of the porch. In the yard, the Americans laughed at a story Robert was telling, using exaggerated gestures to accent his words. Laura couldn't hear what he was saying; the wind had picked up as the sun lowered in the sky, and it blew the men's voices down and into the jungle.

The rains began, an instant waterfall from the gray sky. The men rushed up to the porch from the yard, jostling each other and brushing water off their sports jackets and hats. Between the men bunched together, Laura caught glimpses of Salman and Beaufort, undisturbed in their conversation.

* * *

Laura mentions Jim Corbett, who hunted down a tigress believed to have killed over 400 people in the Kumaon regionin the Himalayas. Corbett wrote a book about his experiences as a hunter of tigers: Maneaters of Kumaon. In the book, he relates about ten stories of his encounters with the creatures. It's quite an interesting read, as is another of his books, Jungle Lore, which is more biographical in nature.Laura also mentions a man named Heller, who is of my own creation. 


	6. Chapter 4

It's only two days late! It was a very hard chapter to write, probably because I discovered some surprising things about the characters as I was writing. I had to rewrite several times to get things straight. I hope it all makes sense.

Next week, we'll see at least one more familiar face!

* * *

Chapter Four  
September 19, 1934  
Bombay

The _Juliette_ left the Bombay port September 1st, nearly three weeks before the Orion Society came down from the Matheran hill station. 

In the harbor master's office, located in the northern end of the docks, Denham and the Ashfields waited in the reception area and listened to the muffled argument between Beaufort and the harbor master, an ex-Navy man named Hillcroft. Denham stood at the assistant's desk and put on his own performance. No one in the room – including two clerks with a shared desk – paid him any attention. The assistant, a thin little man with a blank expression, tapped away at a typewriter as Denham shouted at him.

"Someone's going to get sued!" Denham cried, banging a fist on the desk.

"It's not our fault, sir," the thin man said. A pair of round spectacles perched on the end of his nose. His eyes never left his work. "We can't force anyone to remain in port without good reason."

"Carl," Laura said. She and Robert sat a few meters away in the only available chairs. Robert read a newspaper he'd taken from the assistant's desk. In the harbor master's office, Beaufort's voice rose in a crescendo of threatening force; Laura couldn't discern the words.

Denham continued his own tirade. "Fulver had an agreement with us. We gave him a deposit!"

"And he returned it," the assistant said, "which releases him from his contractual obligations. That's not our concern."

"Carl," Laura said again, and this time he glanced at her. She gestured him over.

"This is ridiculous," he said, but he stepped away from the desk toward Laura. Rising from her seat, she put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him into the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and muttered under his breath.

"Stop it," Laura said. "You're like children, you and Beaufort both. Nothing's bringing the _Juliette_ back now. We'll find another boat."

"It can't be just any boat," said Denham. "We have specific requirements."

"Such as?"

Denham glanced at Robert, who did not look up from his newspaper. "That's Beaufort's business," he said.

Laura's interest in Beaufort's business had all but vanished during the morning's train ride from Matheran. The tycoon had spent the two-hour trip going through an atlas with Denham. She'd been relieved to learn that the _Juliette_ had sailed; now she could find her own way back to America and forget she had ever been involved with the Society. She'd help the Society ship out of Bombay, but that didn't mean she had to go with them.

Tapping Robert on the shoulder, Laura said, "We can start looking for a new transport now."

"What?" Robert folded the paper and dropped it on the floor next to his chair. Denham elbowed him. "I wasn't listening."

"A boat," Laura said. She removed her coat from the rack next to the door and slipped it on. "If Carl tells us what Beaufort needs, we can get to work."

Robert glanced uncertainly at Denham.

"You guys should take a break," said the director. He jumped out of the chair and grabbed Robert's jacket from the rack. "Don't John and his family still live in Bombay?"

"John's probably sailing across the Pacific on some steamer," Laura said.

"Right, ever the sailor," Denham replied. He shoved the jacket into Robert's hands and pulled him to his feet. Robert just stared at him. "But I doubt he takes the wife and kids with him."

"Carl," Laura said, studying him with a practiced gaze, "are you trying to get rid of us?"

Denham gaped at her with wide, innocent eyes. "How can you say that? I just thought you might like to take a break for a day, after all the work you've put in these past weeks."

Laura crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Robert," Denham cried, "talk some sense into your sister."

"You did say you wanted to see Saroja and the kids before we leave Bombay," Robert said as he put on his jacket.

That Laura could not deny. She knew better than to believe that John might actually be in the city – such was the life of a sailor – but Saroja and the children were here. She hadn't seen her niece since she left Bombay in 1926, and she'd never seen her two nephews. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't leave without visiting them.

"We'll meet you at the hotel," she said to Denham.

He nodded. "Yes, of course. Don't worry about us; we'll find something."

Of that, Laura had no doubt. With Carl Denham, things often worked out for themselves.

* * *

The Ashfields of Bombay lived in a modest flat in a residential area near the ports. From their living room window, they could see the masts and smokestacks that represented John's livelihood. Laura sat at the little kitchen table and watched Saroja prepare a pot of tea. In the living room, Robert played card games with the older children, Mary and Paul. 

"It's better than the previous flat we had," Saroja was saying. She moved easily about the little kitchen, stepping over Gilbert, the youngest of the three children, as she brought two cups of the tea to the table. He grinned up at them with typical toddler joy before going back to carefully arranging his wooden blocks and knocking them down with his little fists. "We needed the extra bedroom."

"It's still a far cry from the hill house," said Laura. She wrapped her hand around the cup and enjoyed the warmth. The day was overcast and windy, a precursor to the milder weather to come after the end of the monsoons. Despite the clouds, she didn't think the rains would come today.

Saroja sipped her tea. "This way, John can do what he loves."

"He could make more money as a hunter."

"He still is a hunter."

"But if he gave up this sailing business, he could earn more money and be closer to you and the kids."

Leaning toward Gilbert to steady his block tower, Saroja said nothing.

"I'm sorry," Laura said. "I didn't come here to lecture you."

The Indian woman's features softened as she straightened in her chair. "All that time we spent in the mountains – you know how much he missed the water."

"He couldn't avoid it forever, could he? He always loved the water. Not even the war could change that."

"It's easier for him if he's traveling. When he's standing still, he can't help but think – I don't know." She shook her head. "I can't understand that part of him. You're probably the only one who can."

Laura wanted to end this line of conversation, so she said, "How goes the sailing business then?"

"He's on a new boat, the _Venture_. He hired on about six months ago."

"He didn't like the _Agostino_?"

"Something about the captain; he wouldn't talk to me about it," Saroja said with a shrug of her slim shoulders. She seemed to withdraw suddenly, her eyes becoming blank and distant.

Without another word, she stood, and it surprised Laura to see that the Hindi woman's hands shook. As she leaned over and picked up Gilbert, the boy let out an enraged shriek. He reached for his blocks, but Saroja ignored him, carrying him into the living room. When she returned, she pulled shut the partition, but the boy's cries carried through the thin sliding door. Saroja returned to the table, and for several moments, the two women sat in silence at the table, until Gilbert's cries faded into soft hiccups.

"He's at Mahabaleshwar," Saroja said, staring into her empty tea cup, "with the _Venture _crew."

Laura sat up straight in her chair. Mahabaleshwar was, like Matheran, a hill station in the mountains, a summer resort for the wealthy residents of Bombay. If he was in the mountains with his ship's crew, then the ship must be in port. And if the ship was in port, she and Robert could at least find out its next destination; any stop in America would make her happy. Even if they couldn't book passage on the _Venture_, John would have connections in the Bombay port that could be just as useful.

Not for the first time in their lives, John proved to be her saving grace.

It took Laura a moment to realize that Saroja was staring wide-eyed at her, lips trembling and eyes glistening with unshed tears. She began to ask what was wrong, but Saroja fell out of her chair and onto her knees. Grasping the hem of Laura's skirt, she knelt on the floor, rocking back and forth, sobs shaking her body. Laura leaned back in her chair, shocked at the emotional display from a woman she had always thought to be completely in control.

"Please!" Saroja cried, and her tears discolored the skirt's fabric. "Don't take him from us; we need him more than you do."

Laura grabbed Saroja by her shoulders and had to stop herself from shaking the woman. "Get up, Saroja. I don't understand what you mean."

Saroja only shook her head, tears flowing down her dark face. From her purse, Laura produced a handkerchief, and she slipped out of her chair to sit on the floor next to her sister-in-law. As the other woman cried, Laura wrapped her arms around her and wiped her eyes, but the tears kept coming. She had never seen Saroja cry before, not even during Mary's birth.

"Saroja, please," she said, "this won't help you. Tell me what's wrong."

"Basket," said Saroja, gasping for breath between her sobs. "Next to my chair."

Saroja had been in the kitchen sewing patches on the boys' play clothes when Laura and Robert arrived. Now, Laura looked up and saw the sewing basket sitting on the floor by the table. She reached over and pulled it to her, moving a bit away from Saroja. Nestled in with the sewing items were several folded slips of papers – letters, from what Laura could tell. She pulled them out and unfolded them. Without looking at the return address, she recognized the handwriting at once.

"These are from my mother," Laura said, and Saroja's crying started anew.

Laura placed the sheets of paper on the floor and skimmed them. Margaret Ashfield had never written to Saroja – had not written even to John after the marriage in 1923 – but over the past six weeks, she had sent five letters to her son's family. As Laura looked over them and discovered Margaret's reason for writing, she began to understand Saroja's despair.

_Send him home_, the letters pleaded. _Let him go. His father is dying, he has to come home, you know you cannot keep him. He doesn't belong in your world. You don't belong in ours._

Sliding over to Saroja, Laura again put her arm around her sister-in-law, whose sobs had at last subsided. Saroja wiped at her eyes with Laura's damp handkerchief.

"I'm sorry," said Laura. "She's never understood."

Saroja sniffled and struggled to find her voice without sobbing again. "For eleven years, nothing but silence from her. Not a letter, not a card, not a gift for the children. And then she writes that you're coming to Bombay, that your father is dying, that John must go home."

"This is his home. That's what she doesn't understand."

"I'm such a fool. I thought she sent you to take him back. He told me you wouldn't do that, and I should have believed him. But then you were at the door, and you had Robert with you, and what was I to think?"

Laura squeezed her hand. "It's alright. Didn't you get my letters?"

"Yes. We just didn't realize how sick Sir Walter is. John kept saying he'd get better."

"Well," Laura said with a sigh, "John's always been an optimist."

After a pause, Saroja asked, "Is he really dying?"

"For all I know, he may already be dead."

"You mother would have sent a telegram. She says as much, in her letters."

"When he dies, John will have to come to New York, if only to help settle things. I'm not sure I can do it alone."

"What about the baronetcy?"

"That's John's decision."

"Is it?" Saroja replied with a frown. "He doesn't want it. The title, the estate – he's not interested in it."

Laura didn't answer. To even discuss the matter was pointless; she had no control over what John decided to do with the inheritance, and she didn't know how she felt about it anyway. The estate in England had to be rented out to pay for its high costs, and the title itself meant little now. But the baronetcy had, for generations, been the identity of her family. They had British cousins ready to take the title from their hands, and she wasn't sure she could support John if he just wanted to give it over to them. It was another item on the list of things she had to worry about.

"I came here to see you and the children," Laura said to steer the conversation away from Sir Walter's impeding death, "not to take John away from you. Robert and I had business in Bombay."

"Your mother didn't mention that," said Saroja. The tears had stopped, and she breathed in easier.

"She wanted to scare you. You already know why. Sometimes even good people have prejudices."

Saroja looked down at the handkerchief, wrapping it around her fingers. "I know. It's really why John can't get a job in the hill stations; he can't make the right connections. And I think it's why he left the _Agostino_. The captain of the _Venture_ doesn't seem to care that his children are half-breeds."

Laura kissed her sister-in-law on the forehead and helped her to her feet. "I don't care either. They're lovely children, and that's because they look like you. Now, listen to me, because I think John can help me. Robert and I are stuck here, and we need to get home. You said that John's at Mahabaleshwar?"

Saroja nodded. "They've been all over the mountains, looking for tiger."

"When are they coming down?"

"Any day. The client wants the cargo before the beginning of December."

"What's the destination?"

"California."

"That's fine. From there, Robert and I can take a train to New York."

"But," Saroja said, "the _Venture_ is a cargo steamer."

"I'm hoping they'll make an exception for two people."

"I can give you the docking number, but I can't say for certain when they'll be back."

"No worries. I'll wait." She gave Saroja's hand another squeeze and led her to the partition door. "He'll never leave you, especially not for Mother. He doesn't care what people think."

"Thank you, Laura."

Smiling, Laura opened her purse and took out a small yellow pad and pencil. She wrote down the _Venture_'s docking number (a complicated series of alphanumerics that Laura found typical of the Bombay ports), the name of her captain (Englehorn), and the name of her First Mate (Kendrie). John had been hired as much for his hunting skills as for his nautical training – the _Venture_'s specialty was live animal capture.

In the living room, Robert sat on the floor and entertained the children with card tricks he had picked up during his European travels. Even red-eyed Gilbert laughed and clapped his hands. Despite his finesse at legerdemain, Robert had never been a successful gambler; he'd never quite developed a proper bluff.

"Is everything alright?" he asked as the women came out of the kitchen.

"Just fine," Laura replied. "But it's time for us to go."

The children let out a chorus of groans as Robert got to his feet, and the clung to him while he kissed the tops of their heads and said goodbye. Laura did think they were lovely children – with their large dark eyes and silky black hair – and their skin was not too dark to mark them as Anglo-Indians. Mary, now ten years old, already had the makings of a slender figure that would no doubt garner her much attention in a few years. Laura wished she'd thought to bring a camera box so she could take proof to Margaret that John's children were not the ugly little half-blood goblins she seemed to believe they were. Perhaps she'd even recognize a young John in Paul's shining, dreaming eyes.

* * *

Laura sat on the balcony of her room after dinner, reading a book of Indian poetry and enjoying the evening breeze. She had a pleasant view of the hotel's large courtyard, lit by shaded electric lamps and landscaped with colorful native flora. A few pairs and trios of guests moved through the shadows, and faint laughter filled the air. She could almost forget the city on the other side of the courtyard's walls; even the street noises seemed distant. 

Her eyes passed over the Hindi words on the page, but her mind was not on the poetry. She thought instead of her father and the telegram that had been waiting for her when she had returned to her room that afternoon.

FATHER IN COMA. STOP. COME HOME AND BRING BROTHERS. STOP. MAMA.

Eight words, all that it took to stop her heart and seal her decision. In the morning, she would go to the _Venture_ and wait for John to return. She would accept no more excuses from him. He couldn't avoid New York any longer; their father was dying. What he did after that was his business, but she'd be damned if she just let him pretend he had no obligations to the family.

When she'd gone to Robert's room to show him the telegram, he'd said, "Tell me what to do."

"Have you told anyone about the _Venture_?" she'd asked.

He'd shaken his head.

"Say nothing about it. In the morning, go about your business as though nothing has changed. All you have to do is wait for me to make the arrangements. Promise me you won't tell Beaufort or Carl."

He'd promised.

A reply to Margaret's telegram couldn't be sent until the morning, but Laura already knew what to say.

WE ARE COMING. STOP. LAURA.

A knock at the door disrupted her thoughts, and she stood, placing the poetry book on the balcony table. Her dressing gown brushed the tops of her slippers.

When she opened the door, Robert stood on the other side, still dressed in the suit he had worn to dinner. He smelled of brandy and cigar smoke.

"Beaufort wants to see you," he said.

Laura glanced at the ornate clock on the wall: a quarter after ten. "Can't it wait until morning?"

"No," he said. Shifting his weight on his feet, he avoided meeting her gaze. His evasiveness convinced her that she didn't want to ignore the summons; better to confront Beaufort to his face than deal with the unknown in the morning.

"Let me get dressed," she said, and she closed the door on him.

As she put on a simple blouse and skirt, she kept herself from making hasty conclusions. No matter what Beaufort wanted this impromptu meeting to be about, she would not waver from her decision. She and Robert would return to New York; Beaufort could do nothing to change that.

Robert escorted her to Beaufort's suite, saying nothing. The change in his behavior did nothing to put Laura at ease.

Denham answered Beaufort's door. "Sorry," he said as he let in the two visitors. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"No," she said, and she looked around Beaufort's suite as she spoke.

His room had a sitting room separate from the bedroom, and he sat in one of the plush chairs arranged around a class-topped coffee table. The doors leading to the balcony had been opened, but the heavy scents of Beaufort's cigars and Carl's pipe lingered in the room. Beaufort did not look up as Laura and Robert entered; he held a telegram in one hand and a cigar in the other.

"I think we've solved our transportation problems, Miss Ashfield," he said. Putting the telegram aside, he gestured to a chair.

Laura sat, hanging on the edge of the chair as though ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Beaufort smiled at her, showing his teeth in a predatory way. She said, "You've found another boat?"

"Perhaps. It depends on your brother."

"Oh?" She kept herself from turning to look at Robert. He stood at the suite's bar to her right, mixing a drink and keeping his back to her.

"You misunderstand me," Beaufort said. "I meant John."

It took everything in her to remain still, to reveal nothing to him. Most of her anger she directed to herself; she should have known better than to trust Robert to keep his promise, even when it came to their father. He had told her only what she wanted to hear.

"It's not a passenger ship," Laura said.

"But you think you can book passage, don't you?" replied Beaufort.

"I don't know. I'll have to speak to John about it."

"The _Venture_ has taken on passengers before, hasn't it, Carl?"

Carl, standing next to Robert at the bar, looked surprised at the question. "I – Well, yes, it has."

_Bloody hell_, she thought. _The boat that brought Kong to New York. I should have known._

Beaufort set his cigar in an ashtray on the table and leaned forward, his unruly bangs falling into his face. The day must have had a real effect on him; dark circles had developed under his eyes, and his mouth drew down at the corners. He said, "Are you in a hurry to leave Bombay?"

Laura folded her hands into her lap and tried to look as calm as possible. "Our father has lapsed into a coma. I want to get to New York before he dies."

Beaufort nodded as though he understood. "Of course. Always the good daughter. Naturally, you want to take your brothers with you."

With nothing to say to that, she stared back at him.

"You have been an asset to our little group, Miss Ashfield," he said. "If you want to break from my employ, you can tell me."

"I think I have no other choice," she replied innocently.

"Then may I ask a favor of you?"

She spread apart her hands to show she'd take it into consideration.

"When you go to petition for your own passage, would you be so kind to do so as well for the Orion Society, of which Mr. Denham is naturally a part?"

So that was it. He'd let Laura go, except that he needed one more thing from her. Even he knew that, of all the people in the group, John would trust only Laura. The captain of the _Venture_ might ultimately turn down passengers, but John could at least vouch that they could pay and would cause no problems. That he wasn't sending Denham to do it suggested that the Kong incident was not something the _Venture_'s crew would want to repeat.

For the first time that evening, she smiled – a trusting, open smile that betrayed none of the animosity she felt toward Beaufort and the Society. Let him go on thinking she suspected nothing. With any luck, in less than two months, she'd never have to think about the Society again.

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Beaufort," she said. "I will be properly compensated for my time and effort, yes?"

Beaufort's smile tightened his face and hid his teeth. "Of course."

"Did Robert tell you the ship's destination?"

"A Californian port. It suits our purposes. Denham and I plan on finishing the serial in Hollywood."

Laura pretended to believe what she already knew was a lie. "Then you don't need us anyway, do you?"

"Well, there's still work to be done, but I'm sure we can find handlers to take care of that. All we need from you now is to arrange transportation with John and the _Venture_'s captain. Whatever price they give you, double it. Do whatever it takes to get us on board." He retrieved his cigar and leaned back in his chair. "I'm sure you can be quite persuasive."

_Son of a bitch_, she thought without losing her artificial smile. _I'll bankrupt you to get on that ship if I have to_.

As she said goodnight to the men, she remembered what Denham had said about specific requirements. Beaufort thought the _Venture_ met his needs; she couldn't help but wonder why.


	7. Chapter 5

Another horrible chapter down. Again, sorry for the delay. My posting rate is possibly going to get a bit haphazard; my hours are extending at my job, which means I have less free time to write.

The next installment will be an interlude, followed by another chapter and then two more interludes. I know the interludes don't do much for advancing the story, but I like writing them – it gives me a chance to take a break from focusing on plot so I can focus on the characters. It also gives me time to figure out what exactly isgoing to happen next.

As always, many thanks for the reviews. Also, if you have any questions about the story too, please let me know. I'm more than happy to answer them.

* * *

Chapter Five  
September 21, 1934  
Bombay

Early in the second afternoon of waiting, three lorries pulled up in front of the _Venture_'s dock, and a dozen men in blue jerseys and dungarees emerged from the vehicles. Seeing them relieved Laura more than she cared to admit.

The first day of waiting had ended with more sexual propositions than Laura could count, and most of them had come with offers of money attached. Laura took these with a calm face and a gentle refusal, which most men knew meant they were dealing with a lady and not some wharf whore. In the morning, she'd had to fend of the real businesswomen of the docks, but once she'd shown she had no intention of moving in on their work, they left her alone. Instead, they turned their interest to Robert, who smelled of easy money, and most of the day, he had to fend off their advances. Laura told him to go back to the hotel if it bothered him so much, but he refused to leave her alone on the docks. She humored him by letting him think she needed him.

The next morning, she denied Bridget's request to accompany her to the docks without explaining the reasons. When she tried to do the same with Denham, he retorted that he wasn't a debutante to be bossed around by some high society matron. She found no argument for that.

"Recognize anyone?" she asked as the crew tumbled out of the three lorries.

"No," Denham replied, and he moved about to get a better look at the men. "They've all got those hats on. Do you see John?"

"Not yet," she lied. She'd spotted John as soon as he got out of the second lorry, but she waited for Denham to initiate contact with the crew. How the captain reacted to him would make a difference in how she approached the situation.

The white cap gave away the captain, but without it, the barked orders and commanding presence would have done the job. She found nothing extraordinary about him, except perhaps the confident way he carried himself and the no-nonsense way he dealt with his men. He had the world-weary look of a man who had seen much, and she recognized in him the touch of war that haunted so many of the men she knew. Even at a distance, she heard the German accent evident in his words.

"Englehorn!" Denham called. He raised an arm and waved it over his head, but the captain continued his work.

"A little closer, perhaps?" Laura suggested.

Without waiting for the men, she strolled over to the docks, her hands clasped behind her back. The sailor flocked around the three lorries, their movements quick but not hurried. A middle-aged Cockney man started a round of singing, and Laura smiled. They weren't all hunters then, or if they were, they were sailors first and foremost. The reasons why escaped her, but living and working on a boat made men the most musical creatures on Earth.

They produced a tiger, caged and chloroformed, from each of the trucks:a tigress and her juvenile cubs. Laura estimated that the juvenilesweren't quite two years old – young enough to remain with their mother and old enough to do damage on their own.

Denham caught up with her, calling the captain's name again. This time, the muscles in Englehorn's back and shoulders tightened, and he turned around, an unreadable expression on his weathered face. Stretching a hand out in greeting, Denham continued forward; Robert followed closely as Laura strolled behind them.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," Denham said.

Englehorn responded by drawing back his arm and landing a punch to Denham's chin. He must have pulled it before impact; the force was enough to push Denham back and throw him off balance, but he was relatively unharmed. Robert stepped forward to catch him under the armpits, grunting a little as the director fell back into him. Denham gazed at the captain with an expression of utter amazement.

"Englehorn," he said, "what –"

"Stay the hell away from me," Englehorn interjected, jabbing a finger at Denham. "Crazy son of a bitch."

Denham pulled himself away from Robert, brushing himself off and readjusting his jacket. He gestured to Laura and said, "Please, Englehorn, there's a lady present."

Laura waved a dismissive hand. "No, that's alright. I've wanted to do that for at least two weeks now." She held out her hand to Englehorn and said, "Laura Ashfield."

Englehorn ignored her hand, instead staring at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he said, rather loudly, "Ashfield?"

One of Laura's eyebrows raised, but from behind Englehorn came an answering, "Sir?" A sailor separated himself from the others and came toward the captain.

Nothing about John distinguished from the rest of Englehorn's crew, physically speaking. Average height, average build, average looks – he had always been a man of bland appearance, which he preferred. He wore the same clothes as his crewmates, and like many of them, he looked as though he could stand for a hot shower and a good shave. His hands were calloused and roughened from hard work, and his skin had tanned from frequent exposure to the sun.

But no matter how much he looked like the men with whom he worked, Laura knew him with only a glance. The way he walked gave him away to her, as did the gentle way he talked to the drugged tigress and the boisterous way he sang along with the Cockney shantyman. How could she not recognize him? Until the age of twelve, he had been her closest companion, the one who had taught her how to hold her own in a fight and appreciate the beauty of a good poem. They'd been inseparable until they went off to boarding school in England, and then they'd both grown up, despite all their efforts.

"Hello, John," she said.

"Laura?" He squinted at her as thought he wasn't sure of who he was looking at. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"Trying to earn an honest living. I assume it's the same thing you're doing."

Robert pushed past Denham to stand next to Laura. "Actually, we're here about the boat."

"What?" Englehorn said.

"Pleasantries first, Bobby," said John, shaking a finger at Robert. "Wait until you're introduced before you get down to business. Captain Englehorn, this is my sister, Miss Laura Ashfield, and my brother Robert Ashfield. I believe you've met Mr. Denham."

Englehorn crossed his arms over his chest. "Is there a purpose for this reunion? I have cargo to deal with."

Laura bowed her head in a placating gesture. "A moment of your time is all I request. It concerns a business matter." Denham opened his mouth, but she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Some space, if you please?"

A second passed before he nodded and stepped away with Robert. The two men turned to face the other side of the street, and Denham pulled his pipe out of a pocket. Neither of them spoke.

"You came all the way from the States with a business proposition?" Englehorn said. "If it's about the Island, you're wasting your time."

"It's not about the Island."

Englehorn glanced at Denham.

Laura chose her words with care, trying to keep them direct and uncomplicated. "I don't work for Denham. I represent a man named Beaufort, an American businessman. He would like to hire the _Venture_ to transport a load of cargo to California, which we understand is already your destination."

The captain's stance loosened, and he cocked his head to the side. "What's the cargo?"

"Passengers, actually," she said, and quickly, she added, "Eight total, that's all."

"No," Englehorn said. He had tensed again, and she sensed that she had just lost any ground she might have gained. "I no longer take passengers; you can ask Denham why that is."

"He's on Beaufort's payroll," said Laura, "and Beaufort can assure you he won't cause trouble."

John glanced at Englehorn and then back to Laura. He said, "It's not a cruise ship, Laura."

"We don't want a cruise ship," she replied, and she felt her patience begin to slip away from her.

"I'm done discussing this," Englehorn said.

He walked away, back to the lorries, and Laura started to follow him. John blocked her path, holding onto her arms.

"He's made up his mind," he told her, "and I don't blame him. Beaufort and Denham together is sure to be a dangerous mixture."

"Blast the two of them," she said and pulled out of his grip. "I came here to see you. If he doesn't want the others on his boat, that's fine. I can't blame him either. But you and Robert and I need to get to New York as quickly as possible."

"Always eager to get to the point. Why can't you say hello like a normal person?"

"I did. What more do you want from me?"

"A moment to get my bearings, if you please," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. He twisted her first one way and then the other, his face as serious as though he was performing a medical examination. "You look in fine health, Laura. New York's been treating you well, has it?"

Laura stamped her foot onto his, but the action was pointless, given his heavy boots. "Dammit, John, can we have a serious conversation, please?"

"We are," he replied. "I'm asking after your health. Note, you have yet to return the favor."

He hadn't changed much, after all, from that boy he'd been, who used to pull her braids and tell her ghost stories about the jungle. He'd always said the teasing was an older brother's prerogative. At any other time, she would have let him get away with it.

"Haven't you been reading the letter Mother sent?" she asked.

"Mum's always had a tendency to these things," he said with a shrug. "Remember when you had that cough in 1910? She was convinced you were dying of typhoid."

Laura decided not to show him the cable Margaret had sent, because if she hadn't seen Sir Walter's condition herself, she would have agreed with John. After watching her young brother die of tuberculosis, Margaret had a tendency to panic about the family's health. But Laura had watched her father become an invalid, withering away into a shadow of his former self. She understood her mother's urgency.

Something of these thoughts must have shown on her face, because John said, "The old boy's really that bad off?"

"He's dying, John."

He pulled her into a hug, and she allowed him to do it. His blue jersey smelled like cigarettes and the mountain jungle. As always, his mere presence comforted her; it was his habit to let her take the initiative and lead the way, but she could rely on him for support. If she asked for it, he would give it.

"You'll come, won't you?" she asked miserably.

"I can't do anything for him, Laura. Mum and I will do nothing but quarrel."

"Then don't come for them. I don't know if I can do this alone."

"You can," he assured her. "But you won't have to. Of course I'll come."

Pulling away from him, she punched his arm hard enough to make him wince. "Don't ever do that to me again. Why didn't you just say so?"

He smiled a boyish smile, full of charm and mischief. "I'm sorry. It wasn't very nice of me. I can't help it."

"You could if you tried," she replied, but she smiled back at him. She felt as if she'd found something that had been missing from her life; in a way, she supposed, that was the truth. Glancing at Englehorn – who had returned to the lorries to oversee the unloading of his tigers – she said, "Do you think he'll change his mind?"

"He's got good reasons for his decision," John said. He rubbed his chin and studied the captain, trying to gauge the man's mood.

"Yes, I understand. But Englehorn's a businessman, isn't he? Running a ship costs money."

"Why does it have to be the _Venture_?"

"Because it's the one Beaufort wants."

Nodding his head, John said, "And Beaufort's got the money."

"Exactly," Laura replied.

John considered for a moment. "Let me talk to him. You go at him the wrong way, it's likely to go balls up. He's not much for passengers these days."

"We'll pay whatever he asks. Double, even."

"That's a push in the right direction. Give me a few hours."

"He can come to the hotel and talk to Beaufort there."

"No," John said, shaking his head. "Best to keep Beaufort out of it. Maybe he'll be more sympathetic with you."

Laura put her hands on her hips and glared at John with narrowed eyes. "What's that mean?"

"Does it have to mean anything?" replied John, his face allguileless and unassuming. "Your face is prettier than Beaufort's, that's all I'm saying."

"John –"

He held up his hands. "Trust me. Alright?"

She sighed. "Alright."

"There's a pub, just down the street, across from the docks. It's got a laughing monkey on the sign; you can't miss it." He grabbed her wrist and checked her watch. "Not quite two. Okay, give me four hours. The cargo'll be settled; maybe he'll be in a better mood then."

"What if he doesn't change his mind?"

John gasped in mock offense. "Have you no faith, woman?"

She had no answer for that. With a mock salute from his cap, John returned to the ship, blending in with the rest of the crew. Laura joined Robert and Denham, both of whom were smoking and trying not to look worried.

"What's the verdict?" Denham asked.

"I don't know what you did to Englehorn," said Laura, "but it isn't helping our case any."

Robert's shoulders slumped. "What do we do now?"

"We wait," Laura replied. "At the hotel, preferably. We're leaving our fate in John's hands."

"You're letting John negotiate for us?" asked Denham.

"Don't worry, Carl," Laura assured him."He could talk the stripes off a tiger."

* * *

The square-shaped building was not the only English-style pub along the docks, but Laura knew it was the right one. As John had said, over the open door hung a gaily-painted sign of a monkey, its mouth open in silent laughter. It was the only colorful thing about the place. Rough plankboards covered the outer walls, grayed and splintered from years of withstanding the monsoon winds and rains. The pub was not full yet, attracting a more sedate set of customers than those who would stumble in later in the evening. For now, the patrons were sober, hungry, and quiet.

"A German," Robert said under his breath as they approached the pub.

Laura shot him a dark look. "What do you mean?"

"It's hard to imagine John working with a German," he said.

"Why?"

"Well, you know – the War and all."

She stopped dead, putting out an arm to stop him too. The foot traffic on the street was light, but pedestrians walked around them, grumbling about the sudden stop. Laura ignored them.

"You don't know anything about the War, Robert," she said, getting very close to him. His cologne almost overpowered the smell of smoke and whisky that clung to him.

He backed away, trying to put space between them, but she continued to advance on him. "I know –"

"Nothing. That's what you know. Don't say anything more about it." She turned on her heel and walked away from him.

Denham waited for her at the pub's doorway. "Interesting place for a business meeting," he said to Laura.

"Are you worried?" she asked, glancing inside. Most of the customers were having dinner, and a few men nursed drinks at the bar. She saw no women, but she knew that would change as the evening wore on.

"Of course not," replied Denham, and he grinned. She believed him; a group of placid sailors wouldn't unnerve him. These men made up a potential audience as far as he was concerned. "Are you? These men aren't likely to be used to women like you."

"I'm not here for them," she replied and stepped across the threshold.

John met her as she entered the pub and saluted her with a mug of watery beer. He pointed a finger at Denham and said, "Why'd you bring him?"

"I couldn't chain him to the hotel bar. He insisted on coming."

"He's put Englehorn in a bad mood."

"I empathize."

"You should've come alone."

Robert butted in, saying, "I'm the head guide here. Beaufort hired me first; she's supposed to be my assistant."

John stared at him a moment before saying, "I didn't realize how poor the situation was at home."

"It could be worse," Laura said. "We might have had no jobs. Where's Englehorn?"

John pointed to a table in the corner, well-lit by an overhead electric lamp. The captain was in the process of finishing off a meal of meat and potatoes, and he ate while reading over a leather-bound notebook. He didn't look up as Laura led the other men toward him.

"How did it go?" she asked John.

"Push the money," he advised. "He needs it."

"Who doesn't?" said Robert.

John tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Let Laura do the talking."

Robert bristled, frowning. "Why?"

"Because no one takes you seriously."

If Robert had a retort for that, he didn't get the chance to use it. Englehorn remained seated when Laura came to a stop in front of him, but he nodded to her and put down his fork.

"Miss Ashfield," he said, "your brother is a persuasive man."

"He knows how important this is to our family," she replied. John pulled out a chair for her, and she sat without breaking eye contact with Englehorn. "Thank you for speaking with me again."

Englehorn closed the book – a ledger, Laura guessed – and said, "My condolences, for your father. I know what it is to lose someone you love."

"Then you must understand my impatience to get home."

"There are plenty of other boats in this harbor," he said.

"Yours is the only one with John Ashfield on it. Will you take us or not?"

Rubbing a hand across his stubbly chin, he took a deep breath. "Eight passengers, you said?"

She nodded.

"Tell me about them."

"Leisure hunters, from an American club called the Orion Society. They came to India to hunt tiger. They got what they came for. Now they'd like to go home."

He picked up his fork again and speared a wedge of potato. "Are you a hunter too, Miss Ashfield? Is that why you came with them to Bombay?"

"I do have experience hunting tiger. Beaufort hired me as a guide."

For the next several moments, Englehorn finished off his meal in silence, washing it down with a swig from his mug. She waited, her hands held neatly in her lap, the picture of a proper English lady. She knew better than to hurry him.

Finally, he set down his beer and regarded her with hooded eyes. He said, "It won't be cheap."

"I understand."

"Do you know what the going rate is?"

"I'm not interested in the going rate. I want to know your rate."

He gave it to her. Denham and Robert glanced uncertainly at each other. High as it was, Laura thought it reasonable; after the amount of trouble Denham had brought with him last time, Englehorn had a right to ask for whatever amount pleased him.

"Done," she said.

"Laura," said Robert, and he leaned toward her. She gave him a gentle push and shook her head.

Englehorn leaned back in his chair. "You don't want to haggle with me?" He seemed more amused than disappointed.

"Will you go lower?" she asked.

"No," he said without hesitation.

"Then there's no sense in wasting our time."

Pressing his lips together, Englehorn gazed at Laura for several moments. She could see him working it out in his head – he might not want the passengers, but he wanted the money. If he had asked for more, she would have given it to him, even if Beaufort complained about it later. But he had given her no limits, and she believed that he wanted on the _Venture_ as badly as she did. That warning she planned to give to Englehorn only after he agreed to the arrangement.

"Mr. Ashfield," he said.

John straightened, a reflex from his Navy days. "Sir?"

"If I take your family on board, you will vouch for them?"

"You won't have any problems with them, captain."

Looking up at him, Englehorn said, "Just answer the question."

"I'll account for them, sir."

Englehorn nodded, but he looked none too pleased with the prospect. To Laura, he said, "Beaufort's money is good?"

"I don't know if he can give you that much cash," she replied, "but my checks have all cleared. Money has never been a problem for Beaufort."

Again, he nodded, as though trying to convince himself that he wasn't making a mistake. "I feel I may end up regretting this. Rest assured, Miss Ashfield, you will be back in the States in little more than a month."

"Good man!" Denham cried, clapping the captain on the back.

"Not you, though," Englehorn said. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled away from Denham's hand. "You will stay the hell away from me, my crew, and my boat."

Denham chuckled, like it was some kind of joke. "You can't just leave me here."

"I can, and I will." Englehorn's gaze slid back to Laura. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not at all."

"Laura!"

"Sorry, Carl. I'm sure Beaufort can make arrangements for you elsewhere. There are plenty of passenger ships docked." All innocence, she smiled. "You deserve a break, after all the hard work you've put in for him."

Sputtering, Denham glanced between the two unyielding faces and knew that he had experience another of those defeats that served to slow him down, if only for the moment. He grabbed Robert's elbow and dragged him away from the table, heading for the bar.

Englehorn watched him go. "You have poor choice in company, Miss Ashfield."

"We do what we must to survive."

"Don't the English have a saying about lying down with dogs?"

"I can handle a few fleas, Captain." She offered her hand over the table and added, "Is it a deal?"

He hesitated, and she realized he was staring at her scarred, gnarled hand. She could read nothing in his expression, and then his warm, calloused hand engulfed hers.

They shook on it.


	8. Interlude 3

There's a change in the point of view this time around; I thought I'd try something different. It's horrible. My apologies beforehand. The story picks up again next chapter.

I loathe my summary and have considered writing a new one, but I haven't come up with anything halfway decent yet. Any suggestions?

* * *

Interlude Three: Alone at the Hearth-Fire

"What is a woman that you forsake her,  
and the hearth-fire and the home-acre,  
to go with the old gray Widow-maker?"  
– Rudyard Kipling, "Harp Song of the Dane Women"

September 23, 1934  
Bombay

If someone had told Saroja Narindar as a child that she would marry a white man, she would have laughed. As for that man being the heir of a baronet – she wouldn't have considered that joke funny at all.

When she first encountered John Ashfield in 1921, her world changed. What she had once thought impossible became a reality. Life with John had taught her to take nothing for granted.

She'd met John through Laura, and she met Laura because of the Faradays. The lady of the house, a pinched-faced woman who had married her Baron for money and not love, had hired Saroja as a teenager to be a housemaid. By the time the family took on Laura Ashfield as a governess for their three daughters, Saroja had become Lady Faraday's personal maid.

For a long time, Saroja had been intimidated by Laura, though she knew none of it was intentional on the other woman's part. Laura wasn't dramatically pretty, nor did she go out of her way to make herself so. She had an under-stated beauty to her, something one didn't notice until one really looked at her. Few people took the opportunity to put Laura under such scrutiny, and she didn't appreciate the attention anyway. She, like John, preferred the anonymity of a plain face and a plain style.

What Saroja had always envied was Laura's grace and poise. She carried herself like a proper British lady – which she was, by birth and by nature – but she caught people off guard. Sitting still, at a dinner party or in a parlor, she looked as prim and proper as any respectable lady. When she spoke, the illusion shattered, exposing the intelligence and wit hidden by her bland exterior. It also revealed the bitterness – Laura had emerged from her war experience hardened, and during the time she worked for the Faradays, she had acted with the maturity of a woman twice her age. Some men had found this aspect of her alluring; most had thought it more than a little off-putting.

Now, sitting at the little kitchen table, Saroja looked at Laura and saw that time had not chipped much away from that hard, bitter shell. The years after the War had not all been good to Laura. The marriage to Will Crawford had never stood on solid ground, and after the pregnancy –

_Ah, but that's a long time past_, Saroja thought. _Some things should stay buried_.

The children had finished their dinner, leaving the table to Saroja and Laura. Gilbert snuggled in Saroja's arms, half-asleep, while Mary and Paul practiced one of Uncle Robert's card games on the floor. On any other night, they would already be in bed. But the _Venture_ sailed the next day, and John would leave early in the morning before anyone else awakened. Goodbyes would have to be said tonight.

"Have you met Mr. Englehorn?" Saroja asked as she sipped her tea.

"I have," said Laura. "He seems a capable captain."

"He is a good man. I trust him to keep John safe."

"You still worry about him, after all these years?"

"Every time he comes home, I tell myself that this is the last time. That he's not going away again. And every time, when I hold him in my arms at night, I know that I can't make him stay."

Laura reached across the table, covering Saroja's slender brown hand with her own. "He comes home, Saroja. He's always come home."

The front door opened, and the children jumped up from the floor, screeching greetings to their father as they ran into the living room. Gilbert roused himself from his mother and slid from her lap, toddling after his older siblings. After a few moments, the squeals rose again, followed this time by a deep, hearty laugh.

"He must have brought the Captain with him," Saroja said as she stood. "He's come by a few times, when they're in port. The children adore him."

One of Laura's eyebrows arched up over her eye, and Saroja shook her head to say that she thought it just as odd. John had described his captain as a taciturn man, and Saroja's first meeting with him had proven this true. In the company of the children, his demeanor reversed itself. And the children, not normally shy to begin with, took to him at once. By the end of his first visit, they had him telling stories about hunting animals in Africa and South America. They'd talked about him for weeks afterward.

John could not explain it. He knew nothing about Englehorn's past or personal interests – his life revolved around the _Venture_ and his work. On the water, he never mentioned the Ashfield family, but on his two subsequent visits, he had brought the children sweets and little wooden animal toys. When Saroja asked John about it, he simply smiled and shrugged and said, "The Germans like children; Englehorn is no different."

Whatever Englehorn's reasons, the children treated him like one of the family. As Saroja and Laura entered the living room, Paul and Mary jumped around him like wild monkeys. From the smile on his face, he didn't seem to mind. They broke away from him to show their mother the treats that Englehorn had brought them. His white captain's hat sat lopsided on Paul's head.

"Look, Mum!" the boy cried, waving a fistful of wooden soldiers. "They've even got guns and everything."

Mary pushed in beside him, holding up her cupped hands. "See the panda family, Mum? Aren't the little babies sweet?"

"They're lovely, children," said Saroja, taking Englehorn's cap from Paul's head, "but let's put them away for now. It's time to get along to bed and say goodbye to Daddy."

"But, Mum!" the children cried in unison.

"No arguments now," John called to them. He held Gilbert in his arms, half-asleep and drooling on his shoulder. "You have to behave like good children if you want the Captain to come back and tell you stories."

The children continued to grumble, but they obeyed, retuning to their father for hugs and kisses. In years past, they would have cried and clung to him, but his leave-takings had become a routine part of their lives. Their goodbyes to Laura were quick and perfunctory; they chattered about their new toys as they trotted down the hall to their bedrooms.

Saroja took Gilbert from John, returning Englehorn's cap as she did. "I'm sorry to cut the visit short, Captain, but I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, ma'am," he replied. "Growing children need their sleep."

As always, she felt herself flush a bit at his attention, though she could never understand why. Working with the Faradays, she had met dozens of charming, well-bred men, but none of them had had such an effect on her. Perhaps that low, disarming voice coming from such a rough exterior made him all the more intriguing. Or perhaps it was because he treated her like a woman – like a person – and not a subaltern.

"Will you be staying a while?" she asked.

"Englehorn and I have some things to discuss with Laura," said John.

"Could I make some coffee for you?"

John leaned forward and kissed the top of Gilbert's head. "That's alright, love. We won't be long. You don't mind if we take over the kitchen, do you?"

"Of course not."

Stepping out of the way, she watched the three of them cross the living room and go into the kitchen; John slid closed the partition. It muted their voices into low, indistinct sounds. She couldn't begin to guess what they were discussing, so she didn't try. It wasn't any of her business anyway.

She put the children to bed – her wonderful, beautiful children – and tried not to think about John leaving in the morning. But the long weeks of a half-empty bed troubled her mind with each warm cheek she kissed, and by the time she came back to the living room, she had to dry her eyes with a handkerchief.

The voices in the kitchen had not stopped, and Saroja did not want to interrupt them, so she sat down on the settee to work on a patch of one of Paul's shirts. The discussion went on for another half an hour before Saroja heard the chairs scrape away from the table.

The partition slid open, and John came into the living room. Behind him, Laura said, "It's a small matter. Miss Elmund and I can share a room."

"As it pleases you," said Englehorn.

"You will remember what I said about Beaufort?"

"I would find it difficult to forget."

"Have faith, Laura," said John. "Without Denham, Beaufort probably won't consider it worth the risk."

Saroja had no idea what they were talking about, but she knew Laura Ashfield well enough to see that she was not convinced. She pressed her lips together and said nothing more about it.

Instead, she turned to Saroja and said, "I hope we meet under happier circumstances next time."

"You're leaving already?" Saroja asked, setting aside the sewing.

"We've kept John long enough," Laura said with a smile.

Saroja embraced her, inhaling the sweet lavender scent of Laura's perfume. "Bring him home to me," she whispered.

Pulling away from her, Laura put her hands on Saroja's shoulders. "I will. I promise."

As she put on her coat and hat, Englehorn said, "May I offer to escort you back to your hotel, Miss Ashfield?"

Laura hesitated, frowning. "It's quite out of your way – the other side of the city."

"It wouldn't do to have one of my employers be unable to board tomorrow," Englehorn replied.

Her eyes narrowed, and she breathed in, preparing a retort. Saroja interrupted her, hoping to prevent a confrontation of two strong wills. She hated to see people fighting, particularly when she was fond of both parties.

"Won't you accept, Laura?" she asked. "Bombay's not as safe as it used to be."

The truth was that Bombay after dark had never been safe for a woman of Laura's social status, and everyone in the room knew it. The only problem was Laura's pride.

To Saroja's relief, she let it go. "Thank you, Captain. I will, of course, pay the cab fare."

Englehorn's face tightened under an affected smile. "Of course." To Saroja, he said, "It is always a pleasure to be in your lovely home, Mrs. Ashfield."

"Thank you, Captain. You are always welcome here."

He bowed his head. To John, he said, "On the morrow, Mr. Ashfield."

"Aye, sir."

Without another word between them, Laura and the Captain left the flat, and Saroja locked the door behind them.

John slid an arm around her waist. "Don't look so concerned. I wager it'll be a stalemate."

"What?"

"Laura and Englehorn. I haven't seen Laura so stony since Will forbid her to leave Bombay. And we know how well that turned out."

"She's worried about something," Saroja pressed. "And not just Sir Walter. What is it?"

"Nothing you need be concerned with." He tapped the end of her nose, which he often did when he wanted to keep her mind off something. "Now, then, what say we make an early night of it? I'll be up before the sun in the morning."

"You go ahead. I still have work to do in the kitchen," she said, moving away from him.

He grasped her hand and lifted it, kissing her palm. "It can waituntil morning."

She let himlead her to the bedroom, and she tried not to think about what must follow in the morning. _Let tonight be sweet,_ she thought. _For all the bitterness I must have in the coming months, let tonight be sweet._


	9. Chapter 6

Once again, many thanks to my reviewers and my readers. Having you along for the ride makes me feel so much better about the story.

* * *

Chapter Six  
September 29, 1934

Laura stood on the deck of the _Venture_, her feet spaced apart a bit to better her balance. She held the Winchester in both hands, her grip secure but not too tight. The sway of the boat had distracted her at first, but now the movement made little difference to her, and she was aware of the rocking sensation only when she thought about it. Today's calm sea gave her no cause for concern.

She was ready.

"Pull!" she shouted.

Two seconds of silence – an eternity to wait – and then came the sound of the mechanical arm releasing the clay pigeon. Her eyes caught it at once, a beige spot in the clear blue sky, and she reacted without having to think. The rifle came up, trapping the pigeon in its sights, and it bucked in her hands as she pulled the trigger.

She didn't watch the pigeon explode; her attention turned to the second target, released the moment she hit the first one. It flew lower and faster, but she found it easily, and then it too was gone, nothing more than fragments of shattered clay falling into the water.

Only when she lowered the rifle did she again become aware of the ocean and the boat and her feet on the deck. For the span of six seconds, she and the rifle and the clay pigeons were all that had existed.

Bridget, sitting beside Robert and the throwing arm, applauded.

Robert asked, "Don't you ever miss?"

"Only when I want to," Laura answered with a smile.

"Another round, Miss Ashfield?" Beaufort asked. He stood at ease on the other side of the arm, his rifle reloaded and cradled against his waist. Of his ten shots, he'd hit seven. Robert's teasing aside, Laura had missed two of her own pigeons.

"Not today," she replied. "I understand it's bad taste to continually outshoot your host."

Beaufort took the comment in stride, nodding his head in assent. He turned to Major Windridge and said, "Shall we?"

Picking up her pack, Laura moved to the starboard side of the boat and sat down on a tarp-covered crate to clean her gun. They'd been playing the shooting game for the past two hours, and Laura wondered exactly how many boxes of clay pigeons Beaufort had brought along with him. He played like he had an endless supply.

As Beaufort and Windridge began their contest, shooting off the port bow, Bridget came and stood next to Laura, watching her work on the Winchester. This did not surprise Laura in the least. The moment they came aboard the _Venture_, Bridget attached herself to Laura like a shadow. Unlike their trip on the _Juliette_, Laura encouraged the close proximity, hoping that it would keep Bridget from getting into trouble.

Women boarded the _Juliette_ often enough, befitting its status as a passenger ship. It was a long way from being a cruise ship, and the captain had taken on cargo, but the crew was comprised of well-trained individuals accustomed to dealing with passengers and being polite, particularly to the females on board.

Her experience on the _Venture_ had, thus far, given Laura no reason to complain, but she had realized early on that she should not let down her guard where Bridget was concerned. None of the men paid either of them much interest, but they were only four days into a journey likely to last more than three weeks. Laura suspected that Bridget's curiosity could get the best of her, and she wanted to keep that from happening if at all possible. She'd grown accustomed to the near-constant talk. Because of their shared cabin, Bridget had taken up the habit of asking Laura as many questions as she could before drifting off to sleep.

Of greater concern to Laura was Beaufort. He'd made plans to meet up with Carl in San Francisco, and Laura assumed that they would organize a second attempt to get to the Island. By the time that went anywhere, she would be back in New York and her worries would be focused elsewhere. All they had to do was get to California first. She'd seen Beaufort chumming with certain members of the crew; she consoled herself with the knowledge that Englehorn had no desire to return to the Island that had killed half of his crew.

"Captain Englehorn is watching," Bridget said, nodding up to the wheelhouse.

"Is he?" said Laura without looking up from the gun.

The girl gave what she no doubt thought was a romantic little sigh. "I think he's ever so handsome, don't you?"

Laura suppressed a smirk; she didn't want to encourage Bridget's sentimental notions. "I suppose he's not the homeliest sailor I've ever seen."

"You're not attracted to him at all?" She sat next to Laura on the crate, facing toward the bridge – and thus the Captain as well.

"I hardly know the man. Physical appearance means nothing, Bridget. Handsome men can be ugly on the inside."

Bridget drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. "I don't see how anyone with eyes like his could be a bad person."

Laura glanced over her shoulder at Englehorn; he stood at the rail, hands in his pockets, a thin kretek cigarette jutting between his lips. He stared back down at them, but she couldn't tell if he was looking at her or Bridget or the area in general. Slipping the Winchester into its leather case, she shouldered the gun and stood up. She hooked her arm through Bridget's and pulled her to her feet, leading her down the deck toward the stern of the ship.

"Stay away from him," she said. "Stay away from all of them. If you must walk about this ship, be sure you do it with your uncle or my brothers or me."

"Why?"

"To keep things from getting complicated."

Bridget began to turn her head to look up at Englehorn as they passed the wheelhouse, but Laura kept her moving. "He never smiles. Do you think he doesn't like us? That he's mad we're on his ship?"

"I doubt Englehorn has any feelings for us beyond complete indifference. We paid in full. But tramping is a hard life, and women are a worry that should remain on land."

"Because they're not strong enough for it?"

"Because men are easily distracted. Women aren't mean to board a ship like this."

Bridget considered this, biting her lip. "I don't think I understand."

"All the more reason for you to stay close to me."

"How did you get so wise?" Bridget asked, and there was a little more awe in her voice than Laura cared to hear. She didn't like the idea of being the object of hero worship.

"I've been on a tramp or two," Laura replied simply.

They arrived at the stern of the ship, where a group of sailors sat smoking and drinking from tin cups. John was among them, and he waved at the two women as they went to the railing. Laura ignored him; Bridget waved back enthusiastically. The sun was low in the sky off to the ship's starboard side, and the end of the day's work allowed some of the men a bit of leisure time. The Cockney shantyman – he had introduced himself to Laura as Aldo Starke – started up a broadside called "Jackaroe." He had a deep, strong baritone voice, and another sailor played a concertina as accompaniment.

Laura took her cigarette case out of her pocket and listened to the sailors sing, some of them a bit brokenly. The concertina was a bit grating, but she thought Starke's voice was better than most she had heard. She liked the words more than the actual melodies – if she had to listen to music, she preferred the sea shanties and broadsides because they had the most interesting lyrics. "Jackaroe" happened to be a song of which she was particularly fond, with its simple story of a girl who dresses as a boy to follow her love to war and thus saves his life.

"_I know my waist is slender,  
__my fingers neat and small.  
__But it would not make me tremble  
__to see ten thousand fall.  
__Oh, to see ten thousand fall."_

Music had never been much of an interest for her. The Ashfields prided themselves on their classical tastes, and they'd introduced their children to it early. Laura couldn't remember a time when she actually enjoyed it. In an attempt to overcome what she viewed as simple stubbornness on her daughter's part, Margaret had hired a piano teacher to tutor Laura. The sessions had ended after only one week, giving the ultimate conclusion that Laura had no musical talent locked away in her, as her mother hoped. The teacher further stated that the girl had the manners of a savage and requested that the Ashfields never again inquire after his services.

Not long after that, Sir Walter and Margaret decided that their two eldest children would benefit from boarding schools in England.

_Well, here's to that_, Laura thought as she lit her cigarette. _Perhaps some things aren't meant to be mended._

The song ended with a flourish, and Bridget clapped with the joyous exuberance that only youth could produce. Starke took off his cap and bowed deeply to her.

"Do you take requests, Mr. Starke?" Laura called to the shantyman.

"And what would you have, love?" the big, burly man replied. He laughed loud and often, Laura had noted – the lines on his face were all laugh lines. The first day, he'd gone out of his way to make Laura and Bridget feel at home, and she'd treated him with distant civility at first. At dinner, he'd told her about his daughters in London, even showing her a picture of the two identical pig-tailed adolescents grinning widely. "Lillian and Rosalie, my angels of the land," he'd called them. She'd liked him ever since.

"Give me the tale of that brave Prophet's son, Abdul Abulbul Amir."

Starke winked at her as the man with the concertina started the song's melody. "Only if you sing along with me, love!" Some of the other sailors cheered her on, shouting encouragement to get her to sing.

"Please, mates!" John cried, feigning a dramatic plea. "Spare my sister – and spare your ears! She sings like an irate blue jay. I've heard dying animals make prettier sounds!"

The men roared with laughter, and they all began the tale of Abdul Abulbul Amir and his bloody battle with the Muscovite Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. Bridget gaped at them, positively scandalized, but Laura laughed too and leaned back against the rail.

"Oh," Bridget said, "you let him say such things about you?"

"Why not?" Laura replied with a shrug. "It's the truth. I'm the victim of a tone deaf ear, I'm afraid. Skiffle and sea shanties like Mr. Starke's are the only things that sound even mildly pleasing to me."

Bridget stared at her. "You mean, you don't even like classical pieces? Or popular songs like you hear on the radio?"

"It's all rubbish, as far as I'm concerned."

Bridget paused to consider this. When she spoke again, she asked, "Can I ask you a question, Miss Ashfield?

Of all the questions Bridget posed to her, Laura liked that one the least. She said, "I lay before you all the wisdom and knowledge I have gleaned from my years of experience."

The sarcasm didn't even faze the girl. "Will you teach me how to shoot a rifle?"

Laura twisted her head to blow out smoke so the wind wouldn't push it back into her face. It also made it easier to avoid making eye contact with Bridget. "I doubt your uncle would approve."

"That's why I didn't ask him."

"I'm not sure that I approve."

"Robert said that by the time you were my age, you were already proficient with a rifle."

"That's because I'd been handling one since my tenth birthday." She frowned and added, "Don't be so familiar with Mr. Ashfield; it's bad form."

"He told me I could call him by his Christian name," Bridget replied with a pout. "And you're dodging my request."

Laura had tired of this game, and now Bridget's mere presence irritated her. Taking hold of a rifle was serious business, even for simple love of the sport. And she would certainly not be so presumptuous to teach Bridget without speaking to Beaufort first. Much as she disliked the man, she wouldn't overstep her boundaries like that.

"Alright," she said, flicking her cigarette out into the water. "I'll tell you what my father told me when he started teaching me. When it comes to guns, there's one fundamental rule: don't ever point a gun at a man unless you intend to shoot him. And if you do intend to shoot him, you'd best make sure to kill him."

Watching Bridget's eyes widen in shock pleased Laura less than she thought it would. The girl's mouth worked up and down without producing any noise, and then she turned around and walked further down the rail, her hands clasped against her stomach. _Well,_ Laura thought, _she can't stay sheltered forever._

John broke away from the group and strolled toward her, sipping from his cup. "Are your purposefully trying to traumatize that poor girl, or have you just gotten meaner since I saw you last?"

"She's a good kid," Laura replied. "I just get tired of answering questions all the time."

"Ironic, considering the rapid fire you used to submit Dad to."

"He clearly had more patience."

John chuckled. "Dad's a saint."

Her eyebrow shot up, and she said, teasingly, "And I'm not?"

"You're not going to catch me that way," he said. He leaned against the rail next to her and glanced over at Bridget, who was inching close to them again, pretending not to eavesdrop. "So, the divorce finalized?"

She stared at him. "What?"

He held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. The sun glinted off his wedding band.

"Oh," she said, looking down at her left hand. Even when she was married, she'd rarely worn her wedding ring – she had no other pieces of jewelry, and she often just forgot about it. "Yes, it was decided last December. It's odd; I don't even know where the ring is now. I never got used to wearing it."

"You never got used to being married either. How is Will now that he's a free man?"

Laura glanced at Bridget and decided she had nothing to hide. The divorce was common knowledge, after all. "I hear he's courting in London. Young, rich, and pretty is what my sources tell me."

"Your sources?" John asked.

"The Faraday girls."

"Of course. The British roses of India." He paused and looked thoughtfully at the sky. "Or is it the other way 'round?"

She smiled at him with no small amount of affection. "You're a right berk, you know that?"

He grinned back. "Ah, but I'm an amusing one, you have to give me that."

An outburst of commotion from the mid-section of the ship drowned out the sailors' singing, and a number of the men left the stern to jog up the deck to see what was happening. Some of the men started shouting, and they laughed in loud, harsh barks as they jostled with each other along the rail.

Bridget ran over to Laura and clutched her hand. "What's happening?"

"We'll see," she replied, and she followed John as he made his way up the deck.

The men moved aside to make way for them, and they laughed and joked amongst themselves. Laura doubted anything terrible had happened; the men showed no concern at all and apparently thought the whole thing nothing more than a joke. She held tight to Bridget's hand so the girl wouldn't get lost in the bustle.

"A stowaway!" Starke cried in response to a question that Laura hadn't heard. He used a beefy arm to clear the way for the women, and he grinned as they passed. "We ain't had one of them since Jimmy got on board." His whole body shook as he laughed.

With Starke's help, it took only a matter of seconds to get to the front of the crowd, and Laura watched as the first mate – a New England man by the name of Kendrie – dragged a short, hunching figure across the hold. On the other side of the ship, the Society looked on in silent surprise.

"Who is it?" Bridget asked.

"Good Christ," said Laura. "It's Carl."

And so it was, which was plain for all to see as Kendrie brought his prisoner to a stop before the gathered men. Denham squinted in the sunlight, trying to hold up a hand to shield his eyes, but Kendrie's grip on his shoulders hindered him. His face was stubbled, his hair uncombed, his clothes tattered. Laura almost felt sorry for him, but she couldn't help but wonder how much of it was an act. He'd been on the boat for four days; someone must have been bringing him food and water. The implications roused all the worries she thought she had put to rest.

Englehorn appeared on the deck, and true anger darkened his normally expressionless face. Men scattered from his path, and Denham cringed back into Kendrie. Bridget's grip on Laura's arm tightened.

"Where did you find him?" the Captain demanded.

"Skulking about in the hold," Kendrie replied. He gave Denham a shake and said, "Not so high and mighty are you now, eh, Mr. Director?"

"That's enough, Kendrie," Englehorn said. He put his hands on his hips and glared down at Denham. "What do you have to say for yourself, Denham?"

For the first time in the four years that Laura had known him, Denham apparently had nothing to say. He looked everywhere but at Englehorn, as though he hoped the captain would just forget about him if he stayed silent.

Beaufort crossed over the hold, his hands raised in a gesture of appeasement. "I feel responsible for this, Captain. Denham is in my employ, after all. If you like, I'll take him into my custody, keep him out of your way."

"I can handle this, Beaufort," snapped Englehorn without looking at the American.

"Whatever you say," replied Beaufort, keeping a respectable distance.

"Look," Denham said, attempting to compose himself. He smoothed down his hair, though Kendrie limited his movement. "I couldn't just sit around Bombay waiting for another ship; I've got a serial to finish. I swear, I've got no ulterior motives, no plots, no plans."

"Shut up," Englehorn said. "You expect me to believe you? After what happened last time?"

"That was an entirely different situation."

"Yes. Now I know better than to believe anything that comes out of your mouth. You'll be leaving my ship sooner than you think."

Carl snorted. "What are you going to do, throw me overboard?"

"Don't tempt me," Englehorn replied. "The first bit of land we see will be your port of call. If your luck hasn't finally run out, maybe you'll get a place halfway civilized."

Denham shut his eyes and sagged against Kendrie. He looked over at Beaufort, who gave him a subtle nod of his head. Laura wondered if Englehorn had noticed.

Kendrie said, "What'll we do with him in the meantime, skipper?"

"Put him back in the hold, and lock him in one of the cages. He doesn't come on deck for any reason. No one speaks to him without my permission."

"Aye, sir," Kendrie said, and he headed back to the hold, dragging Denham with him.

Englehorn turned to address his gathered crew. "No one goes near him. I find anyone talking with him, I'll lock up that man too. Now get about your business."

The men began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves but unwilling to anger Englehorn any further. The Captain left the deck, heading back up to the wheelhouse. On the port side, Beaufort and the Society men quietly gathered together their sporting equipment.

"Christ, what a mess," said John.

Starke stared at the cargo hatch and shook his head as Kendrie emerged again. "No good can come of this. That man ain't nothing but trouble."

Bridget let go of Laura's hand and squared her shoulders. "I think it's terrible. The Captain has no right to lock Mr. Denham up like he's some sort of animal. Mr. Denham is a gentleman."

"Begging the miss's pardon," said Starke, lifting his cap to her, "but you must not know the whole story. I was there on that Island; I saw what Denham really is. He don't care about none but himself."

The two men excused themselves, leaving Laura and Bridget alone. They watched as Kendrie joined the Society men, engaging Beaufort and Robert in a conversation. Laura strained to hear them, but between the ship's noise and the wind, their voices could not reach her. Beaufort nodded his head several times, as though assuring the sailor.

"You were right," Bridget said.

Laura didn't look away from the men. "About what?"

"Captain Englehorn. He's not the man I thought he was. Only someone truly uncivilized would treat Mr. Denham like that."

_Maybe_, Laura thought as she watched Beaufort and Kendrie part company. _But, then again, maybe not. _

_

* * *

_The broadside "Jackaroe" first appeared in print in the early 1900's, and its author is generally listed as anonymous. "Abdul Abulbul Amir" was written in 1877 by Percy Finch, possibly in reference to the Crimean War. Both were (and continue to be) popularsea shanties. 


	10. Interlude 4

I had intended to post a regular chapter this week, but I have some plotting issues to work through first. Instead, I offer you a story that I imagine John tells his children when he's at home. It's a different style than I usually use; John always did admire Kipling.

* * *

Interlude Four: The Allegory of the Tigress

"How the Tigress Got in the Cage"  
_for Mary  
written down by John G. Ashfield, 1930_

Once upon a time, there was a Tigress, and she was both beautiful and deadly. She lived in the jungle with all the other tigers and tigresses and all the other animals, and they were all quite happy, for the jungle was safe and dark and protected them from the dangers of the wide, open plains that surrounded it. Everyone knew that Man lived on the plains, and he was a dangerous sort and not to be trifled with, so no one went to the Edge unless they really, really had to.

You will remember, my Dearest, that I told you the tale of How the Tigress Met Monkey, so of course you will remember that Monkey was the Tigress's best and closest friend. They were an odd pair, indeed, with Monkey all bouncy and chatty and the Tigress all slinky and quiet, but they were very happy with their differences and no one teased them because everyone got along splendidly.

But such things cannot last forever, my Dearest. One day, a group of Elephants came up from the Edge and called together all the animals, and everything was serious and still (for Elephants themselves are very serious creatures).

"Listen to me," said the oldest and wisest of the Elephants. "Man is massing on the plains. For generations we have had peace, but now it seems we must fight again. If we are to keep Man from taking our home from us, we must send our warriors into the plains. Gather yourselves and attend to the War Council."

And then the Elephant sent his sons and daughters to tramp though the jungle and trumpet the calling to the War Council. And the animals whispered amongst themselves. Some were very frightened and did not want to fight, but others were ready to march as soon as possible.

Monkey said to the Tigress, "Man is massing on the plains. Let us go to the War Council and hear what is to be heard."

"No," said the Tigress.

Monkey thought at first that the Tigress was scared, but he knew better than to believe that, for the Tigress feared nothing. She would say no more, and when Monkey went to the War Council, she did not go with him.

Many animals came to the War Council, and they debated long into the night about what to do about the massing of Man on the edge of the plains. The Wolves and the Tigers and the Monkeys promised to be fierce fighters and meet Man head-on. The Elephants promised to be strong and sturdy leaders. The Hares and the Birds promised to be fleet messengers and scouts. The Serpents promised to be swift and deadly assassins. And so, one by one, the animals pledged to protect their jungle from the onslaught of Man.

Monkey left at once to fetch the Tigress, for he was very excited about going to war – you must excuse him, my Dearest, for he was a young and most foolish Monkey. Like so many other young Monkeys, he wanted to do his part for his home and keep safe all the other little animals that could not go and fight.

He found the Tigress staring at the Moon, so full and wide, and he jumped about, cackling and hooting with joy.

"Oh, my friend," he said, "it is decided. We will march against Man and keep safe our most excellent jungle. Are you not proud? Will you not come with us?"

"No," said the Tigress. "I will not."

"That is just as well," said the Monkey, "for Tigresses should stay in the jungle and be safe while the Tigers go off and fight. Someone must look after the little cubbies."

The Tigress, who had no cubs of her own and did not seem to want any, stared at the Moon and did not answer.

"Are you unwell?" asked Monkey, who is rather thick-skilled and often does not see what is right in front of him. "It is bad to go to war, yes, but we have defeated Man before, we have always kept the jungle safe."

The Tigress said, "Why should we fight? Animals will suffer, and they will die, and nothing will be solved. Man will always be on the plains, we cannot drive him back."

Monkey laughed and danced around her and patted her head and rubbed her ears and said, "You worry too much, Tigress. You will see, this will be over soon. We are too strong for Man."

And so Monkey went off to join his brothers, and they marched to meet Man, whose armies threatened to invade the jungle. For many months, the animals taunted Man and boasted that they would defeat him quickly, and they fought valiantly and kept Man at bay.

But wars are not as easy as that, my Dearest, and Man retaliated with his guns and his own animals, the ones that belong to him – the Dogs and the Horses and the Elephants who clear the land for him. The animals of the jungle saw that they had been wrong to boast, for Man was powerful indeed, and he threatened to take the jungle from them.

Months dragged into years, and the Tigress watched many of her friends die, and the jungle became a quiet, desolate place. The other Tigresses cried over their losses, but the Tigress spent many lonely hours staring at the Moon. Some of the other animals left the jungle to join the battle, but the Tigresses said, "No, we must remain in the jungle where we are safe. We will stay here and pray for the others, but we cannot leave."

Only the Tigress was silent.

And then one night, she left the jungle and came to stand at the Edge, and she saw the terrible war that had devastated the plains. She walked the Edge for many days until she came to a battlefield, and she finally saw the Enemy for herself, and she understood that Man had come for them at last. For you must understand, my Dearest, Man is never pleased with what he has and craves constantly for what is not his. That is Man's way.

Although she wanted to run back to the safety of the jungle, Tigress would not give in to fear, and she plunged into the battle, and she would accept her time when it came. And Man ran in terror, for he saw that she was beautiful and deadly and unafraid.

But one Man saw her and loved her beauty and her deadliness, and he said, "This tigress I shall not kill; I shall capture her and keep her for my own, and I shall never let her go."

From that moment on, he focused only on the Tigress. He left his men behind and pursued her as she crossed battlefield after battlefield, and always he was so close to her but unable to capture her. When she turned to confront him, he backed away, for he did not wish to shoot her and kill her. And the Tigress, content to make him run from her, did not pursue him but went back to her work on the battlefield. And always, he would then continue his chase, waiting for the moment when she would be weakest and thus fall to his power.

As it happens, my Dearest, in another part of the jungle lived other clans of Wolves and Tigers and Monkeys, and all through this war, they watched from the jungle and shook their heads and said, "Good thing we're not involved in this." Several times, their neighbors came to them and pleaded them to aid their struggle, but they shook their heads and said, "Sorry, but we don't have anything to do with you and Man. See this line here? That's our border, and we won't cross it. Keep your fighting to yourselves, thank you very much."

I'm sure you know, my Dearest, what will happen next. Now that Man saw victory in the near future, he turned his eyes to this neighboring jungle, and of course, he wanted it. Why take only a portion when you can have the lot? So Man gathered together some of his soldiers, and he marched across the border.

"Do you see now?" said one side of the jungle to the other.

"Dear me," said the other side, "this won't do at all."

And from these clans came fresh warriors, new to the battlefield but as determined as those who had come before. And Man was astonished for he had no reserves of his own. One by one, his battalions were defeated, and soon after, Man retreated back to the plains and laid down his arms and surrendered.

The animals had saved their jungle, but at what cost, my Dearest? At what cost? Monkey had many fewer brothers to swing with in the trees, and the Wolves howled for pack-mates who would never come home. And the Tigress did not return.

You see, my Dearest, the Tigress had gone though all these battles without thinking of her own needs, and when the fighting stopped, she collapsed from exhaustion. The Man who had followed her, who loved her so much he wished to own her, had waited for just this moment. And instead of helping her and taking pity on her, he ordered his men to chloroform her and bind her and put her in a cage, so that she would be his for always and forever.

When she awoke, the Tigress saw her grave mistake, and she roared and bit at the café bars, but they held her fast, and the Man laughed at her. "I have caught you fair and square," he told her, "and now I may look upon your beauty whenever I like, and I may boat that I have tamed your deadly nature."

The Tigress said to him, "I fear neither Beast nor Man, and I have faced Death with my eyes open. My body you may have imprisoned, but my soul will never be yours." And then she stopped her roaring, and she lay down in her cage, and she resigned herself to her fate. And thought the Man took her back to his home on the plans and put her in his menagerie, her mind was far away in the jungle, and she was staring at the Moon.

Now, you must not despair, my Dearest, for the story is not over yet. You must remember Monkey, who may be very foolish but is also very loyal. He simply would not believe that the Tigress had fallen in battle – not she, who is so beautiful and deadly – and so he ran all around the plains searching for her. Because he was so slippery and quick and relatively harmless, Man ignored him, and he came into their camps and asked all the animals of Man if they had seen the Tigress.

"She is beautiful and deadly," he said to them, "and she is my friend, and I would like to see her, please."

"Man has caught her fair and square," said Dog, growling.

"And now," said Horse, stamping his hooves, "her beauty is his, and he has taken away her deadliness."

And they laughed at him, for they belonged to Man, and they had forgotten what it means to be free. Some, my Dearest, believe it easier to belong to another, so long as they are safe and well-fed. But Monkey knew that the Tigress would rather be free than safe, and so he sought her out in the Man's menagerie, and there he found her lying in her cage. When he came up to the bars, the Tigress turned her back on him and pretended to be asleep.

"Please," he said, "won't you tell me how to get you out of your cage so you can come home to the jungle? The Man has captured your body, but your soul is still free, and it is staring at the Moon and waiting for you to return."

"I belong to Man now," said the Tigress. "I left the jungle, and that is my own fault. Here I shall suffer, and here I shall die. It is the way of all things." And she would speak no more to him.

Upset by the Tigress's words, Monkey went to the wisest old hare he could find, and he said, "Please, won't you tell me how to get the Tigress out of her cage? She is beautiful and deadly and does not belong to the Man, no matter how much he wishes to keep her."

And the old Hare laughed, and his old Hare wife laughed too, and they said, "Silly Monkey, of course the Tiger belongs to the Man. He has caught her fair and square, and now nothing can free her. Besides, it is better to be in Man's cage than in the crosshairs of his rifle."

Monkey would not believe this, so he went to the Man's Elephant (that is, my Dearest, not the Wild Elephant, you understand) and said, "Please, you who know Man so well and serve him with your great strength and great size, won't you tell me how to get the Tigress out of her cage?"

"The Man has claimed his bounty," said the Man's Elephant, "and he has caught the Tigress fair and square. Besides, it is better to work for the Man than to die for his sport."

But Monkey would not believe this either, so he went to the great Tortoise, the wisest and oldest of all creatures, who travels slowly and thus sees all. "Please, wise mother," he begged, "won't you tell me how to get the Tigress out of her cage?"

The Tortoise, who has lived long and seen much and so does things very slowly, sat and stared at the Moon for many long nights. During all this time, the Monkey tried to be patient, because one must never hurry a Tortoise, but he could never understand how one could just sit and stare at the Moon without dancing and singing to her as well. So he danced around the Tortoise to keep himself occupied, and the Tortoise ignored him, reflecting that, in her day, Monkeys had better manners.

Finally, after many nights of staring at the Moon, the Tortoise said, "You cannot get the Tigress out of her cage."

Now, Monkey, as you know, my Dearest, does not give up easily, but he had spent many weeks searching for a way to get the Tigress our of her cage, and he had just waited several long nights for the Tortoise to give her answer. And now that he had it, he was so sad that he sat down and cried, which is something Monkeys rarely do.

"Attend to me," said the Tortoise, who had all the patience in the world. "Crying won't get the Tigress out of her cage."

"The Tigress is my friend!" Monkey cried. "She is beautiful and deadly, but the Man locks her up so he can keep her always and forever."

"That is Man's way," replied the Tortoise. "He imprisons what he loves. His love is a cage. But love needs freedom to thrive, otherwise it poisons and kills. The Man will never understand this, for he sees only what he wants. And he has convinced the Tigress that this is the way of the world, so this is her fate."

At the thought of the Tigress dying caged and alone, Monkey started crying again. And a crying Monkey is a terrible thing to behold, my Dearest, for he is so loud and noisy that he can wake any sleeping thing, just as he can when he is laughing. Monkeys do nothing in half-measures.

"You must stop that noise at once," said the Tortoise. "I did not say the Tigress can never be free; I said only that you cannot free her. No one can free the Tigress except for herself."

And then the Tortoise went to sleep, for she was very tired after spending so many nights staring at the Moon and then dealing with Monkey, who would tire anyone out. Even though Monkey jumped on her shell to wake her up and ask more questions, she slept and slept and dreamed of a time when Monkeys had better manners.

Now Monkey was truly at a loss, because Tortoises are very rarely wrong about these sorts of things, especially after spending so many nights staring at the Moon.

"Ah!" he said. "Perhaps the Moon gave Tortoise the real answer, but she is now too sleepy to tell me (because Monkeys can be so very tiresome, you know), and perhaps if I sit and stare at the Moon, she will give me the answer too!"

And so he sat and stared and stared and sat for many, many months, which is a very long time for a Monkey to be still and quiet. All this time, the Tigress belonged to the Man, and he didn't simply stare at her in her cage, he made her jump through rings of fire and showed her off to his friends, except none of them could get too close, for the Man was very possessive of her. After all, he'd caught her fair and square.

One might think, my Dearest, that the Tigress had lost that spark that is deep inside all Tigers and Tigresses, but this is not so. After such a long time in her cage, she simply forgot what it means to be free. This was terrible indeed, for her eyes lost their luster, and her coat lost its shine. And the Man looked upon her and said, "This tigress was once deadly and beautiful, but now she is mine for always and forever, and I shall never let her go."

But, after all that time, because wonders will never cease, my Dearest, Monkey jumped up from his spot and hooted and laughed because he had finally learned how to free the Tigress from her cage. And off he ran into the jungle, for he had many plans to plan indeed.

"Then," you may ask, "how does the Tigress get out of her cage?"

Well, my Dearest, that is another story altogether.


	11. Chapter 7

Another chapter with which I am not entirely pleased, but if I keep tinkering with it, I'll never post it. After this will be an interlude, but it will be followed by two very important chapters, because really, I have to get this plot into gear at some point in time.

Beginning with the second half of this chapter, you can expect to start seeing points of view other than Laura's. As other characters get involved in the plot, they're starting to butt into the narrative. I'm also finding that they've all got their own stories to tell, even if I'm not sure I'll get the chance to tell them. Englehorn, in particular, is starting to develop a nice backstory, and his is one of the voices that just keeps getting stronger. We'll definitely be hearing more from him in the future.

As always, much love to my reviewers and readers!

AN: Revisions applied to latter half of the chapter, regarding Englehorn and the First Mates he had employed since Hayes's death.

* * *

Chapter Seven  
September 29, 1934 

Laura waited until evening to seek out Englehorn, and John told her she could probably find him in his cabin. He didn't ask her why she wanted to speak to the Captain; she assumed he already knew.

Englehorn's cabin door stood open when she came to it, and she hesitated when she realized he and Kendrie were in the middle of a discussion about Denham. Their voices carried into the hall.

"You don't really want to set him down on one of these islands, do you?" Kendrie asked. "He'll never survive."

"Denham's survival is not my problem. Some people might even think he deserves it."

"Maybe you should consider the consequences."

"I'm more concerned with what he can do while on my ship. You put a guard on him, yes?"

"Yes. And I've set up a detail. He won't have a minute alone to himself."

"Good. Make it clear that no one speaks to him. That goes for you too."

"Yes, sir."

Laura stepped into the doorway and rapped on the jamb. Both men looked up at her; they stood at a table on the opposite wall, and a map was laid out before them. Englehorn, now hatless, had a mug of steaming liquid in one hand.

"Are you lost?" Kendrie asked, and his voice had a dangerous quality to it. He intended her to be aware of his lack of respect for her.

"I came to see the Captain," she replied, and she looked at Englehorn as she spoke. If Kendrie would not show her respect, she would offer none in return.

Englehorn said, "How can I help you, _gnädiges Fräulein_?"

Laura frowned. Was he mocking her by using such formal speech, or was he making a point to Kendrie? She decided to get straight to the point and said, "May I have a word with you in private?" Again, she avoided looking at Kendrie.

"You can speak freely in front of my man," he replied.

Gazing at Englehorn, she said nothing.

The German set his mug on the table and said, "You're dismissed, Mr. Kendrie. See that Denham gets his dinner."

Kendrie hesitated a moment before saying, "Aye, skipper."

Laura stepped into the cabin to get out of Kendrie's way, but his shoulder bumped hers as he passed her. She didn't flinch at the contact, nor did she object when he closed the door as he left. He'd talk, of that she was sure, but it made no difference to her. Many years had passed since she last let gossip have an affect on her.

As captain, it was fitting that Englehorn should have a spacious cabin. They stood in what was clearly an anteroom, with a door leading to a smaller chamber, probably where he actually slept. A row of guns ran along one wall, and as a whole, the room was decorated sparsely but comfortably. In addition to the table, he had a desk in one corner and a smaller table with a gramophone in another.

Englehorn leaned against the larger table, his arms crossed over his chest. Despite the availability of two chairs, he did not invite Laura to sit. He did this, Laura knew, not out of bad form but to prove a point – this was his territory, and she was not meant to be comfortable here.

"You have my full attention, Miss Ashfield," he said.

"Are you not at all concerned about Carl Denham's presence on this ship?" she asked.

"Not while he's in the hold. He can't get into any trouble down there."

"Don't you want to know how he even got on board?"

Englehorn shrugged. "Denham's a crafty man, and he can be as slippery as a weasel when it pleases him. He had help, more than likely. Nothing I can do about it now."

"Have you forgotten what I told you about Beaufort?"

"No. His deviance would be obvious to anyone, what with shooting on the deck and reading philosophy at the galley table. Just yesterday, he engaged me in a particularly shocking discussion about steamer maintenance."

"Don't talk to me like that," she snapped. "I'm not a child. I've know Beaufort long enough to know he can't be trusted."

"He's made no mention of the Island. Instead, he asked my opinion on the hunting in Honduras. I suspect –"

"Can't you see what he's doing? If you had any sense at all, you'd lock him up with Denham."

His voice suddenly fell low and dangerous. "Are you telling me how to run my ship?"

"Someone should," she retorted. "At the rate you're going, it won't be your ship anymore. You'll wake up one day, and Beaufort will be at the helm; if he does things right, you won't even mind."

Englehorn pushed away from the table, closing the distance between them. She backed into the door, pressing against it, and then he was so close to her that she could smell the salt and sweat clinging to him. On his breath lingered the heavy scent of the coffee he'd been drinking. He stood over her, his gaze steady, but he did not touch her. She maintained eye contact with him; if he wanted to intimidate her, she'd give him no such satisfaction.

"Step away from me, Englehorn," she said calmly.

"No," he said, and his voice had dropped to a husky whisper. "You've had your say; now I'll have mine. This is my ship, Miss Ashfield, and I'll run it as I see fit. I won't have you or anyone else telling me what to do."

"Then how did you end up on that Island in the first place?" she challenged.

Putting one hand on the doorframe over her head, he leaned down over her. "That's a mistake I won't make again, I assure you."

"I hope that's true," she replied, holding her ground, "for all our sakes."

He said nothing more, but he made no move to step away from her. She was suddenly aware of the intensity of his gaze, and just as suddenly, she was struck by the desire to get away from him. Reaching behind her, she found the doorknob and turned it so quickly that the door jerked open. She stumbled back into the hallway and glanced up to see that Kendrie had returned, and Beaufort stood behind him. Neither of them looked surprised.

"Are you alright, Miss Ashfield?" Beaufort asked, and he moved past Kendrie to offer her a steadying hand.

"I'm fine," she said, jerking away from him.

Englehorn moved into the doorway and said, "What now, Kendrie?"

"I came to offer my apologies, Captain," Beaufort said. "I had no idea Denham was on board. I want to assure you that I had nothing to do with that." He paused before adding, "There are other items I wished to discuss with you, but if you and Miss Ashfield are –"

"She was just leaving," Englehorn interrupted. "She had some concerns about Denham's treatment."

Beaufort nodded, and to Laura, he looked like a snake about to strike. "How thoughtful of her. I have always found her to be considerate of others."

"Really?" Kendrie remarked with a smirk. "Because she seems like a stuck-up bitch to me."

Laura had endured far worse insults, but she felt the color draining from her face just the same. It was one thing for Kendrie to imply he had no respect for her, but to come out and put it into words like that was entirely different. What made it worse was that he'd said it in front of two men who were supposed to be his moral and social superiors, and they did nothing.

So she slapped him.

Then she turned on her heel, her skirt swinging about her legs, and marched down the hall and up the stairs leading to the deck. She held her stinging hand by the wrist, and she had to admit that it was one of the most satisfying blows she had ever dealt to a man.

* * *

The men watched her go, and Englehorn disliked the smug look on his first mate's face. He neither expected nor required his men to go out of their ways to play nice with the passengers – he rather preferred that everyone kept to their own business – but he didn't appreciate Kendrie pushing his bounds like that. The man made a bad habit of it. 

"Where I'm from," said Beaufort, turning a steely gaze to Kendrie, "when a man uses language like that about a lady, another man takes him outside and knocks him down."

"Is that so?" replied Kendrie, looking unconcerned.

"That's enough," Englehorn said, and Beaufort took the gentleman's role, backing up a step. "Miss Ashfield's honor isn't any of our concern, and I won't have fights over it."

"As her employer, I feel that –"

"It's a matter best left to her brothers," Englehorn snapped, pinning Beaufort with a look that suggested he drop the subject.

"Understood, Captain," the American said, and he smiled to show that there were no hard feelings. There was something of the fox in that smile, and Englehorn could understand Miss Ashfield's concerns; if Denham was a grandstanding grifter, then Beaufort was a self-assured confidence man. "I hoped we might continue our conversation about hunting in South America."

Englehorn forced himself to give the man a polite smile. "Some other time, hmm?"

"Whatever you say, Captain. At your convenience, then."

As Beaufort strolled down the hall, Kendrie made as though to follow him, but Englehorn held out an arm to stop him. "A moment, if you please, Mr. Kendrie."

"Of course, sir," said Kendrie, but he sounded less than pleased. His cheek had turned a bright red; it had been a well-placed slap, thrown from the shoulder to maximize the force of the impact. Most women didn't know how to properly hit a person, a deficiency that Laura Ashfield had somehow overcome.

"I've said all I care to say about this attitude of yours."

Kendrie lowered his head and stared at the floor, looking as pathetic as a schoolboy caught skipping class. It disgusted Englehorn more than it angered him. He expected something more from the man who was supposed to be the second most powerful person onboard.

"You've been on this ship four months now; I'm not giving you another chance. You pick any more fights – with the crew or with the passengers – and I'll put you off in California. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Kendrie through gritted teeth.

Englehorn took a step back into his cabin and said, "I won't have this conversation with you again. Have Mr. Leonard take the helm for a while."

"Yes. Sir."

The man started to move away, and Englehorn called after him, "Is Ashfield off duty?"

"As far as I know, sir," Kendrie said without turning around.

"Send him down then."

He closed the door on Kendrie's answer and went to the table to pick up his now lukewarm coffee. Grimacing as he sipped it, he walked over to his desk, where the ledger sat open and covered by an old Bombay newspaper. He'd been going over it again when Kendrie had come down the first time with the map.

Nothing seemed to have gone right since the Island. The damages to the _Venture_ had taken weeks to repair, and he'd had to borrow more money than he'd liked in order to pay for it all. He'd be working that off for the next four or five years, and that was if he pushed hard and took any job he could get. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to be in debt, and now here he was back in the red. He thanked whatever gods existed that he'd gotten out of New York before Kong's debut; at least he could pretend he had nothing to do with that.

Then there was the loss of manpower: almost half his crew on the Island itself, and the majority of the rest of them as soon as they landed in New York. Seven had remained on board, and of those, only three still sailed with him. Sailors were plenty in any port, and most of them hired on for a single run, moving on to another boat when they had earned their pay. But most of Englehorn's men had been trained for animal capture, and the sailors he picked up as port-hires didn't have that experience.

The death of Ben Hayes was the worst of it. Though he and Englehorn hadn't always seen eye to eye, the German knew he'd never get a first mate like him again. And thus far, he hadn't.

First, there had been the New Yorker, who had failed to mention a certain drinking problem he had. Englehorn thought nothing of taking a nip himself once in a while, and he allowed the crew to partake so long as they kept themselves under control. He'd found the man sprawled out at the foot of the stairs leading down to the cabins, half-drowned in gin and suffering from a concussion.

After a detour to Miami, where he dumped off the lush, Englehorn picked up a Cuban who had experience with freight and a willingness to learn the finer points of animal capture. He had a way with the other sailors, being a charismatic sort, and Englehorn had trusted him to keep the men in check. One thing the Cuban had never quite understood was how to take a dangerous animal seriously; he lasted seven months on the _Venture_, his life coming to a painful end after an encounter with a black mamba during a hunt in Africa.

And now, there was Kendrie, who had come recommended from Donald Locke, the man who had sold Englehorn the _Venture_ back in 1929. Kendrie came from a sailing family, but he was looking for something more fulfilling than running trawlers out of Gloucester. He took easily to the hunting and capturing part of the job, but he didn't have the reckless nature of the Cuban, which boded well for him as far as dealing with dangerous animals went.

The downside was that Kendrie had a tendency to be a bully, and he could sniff out weakness in a man like a terrier hunting a rat. Worse than that, a lot of the port-hires respected that kind of disposition, having less than exemplary attitudes towards authority figures and anyone generally better off than themselves. Ultimately, it was trouble waiting to happen, and Englehorn had the feeling it wasn't going to hold off much longer. Maybe he'd forgo waiting to get to California and send Kendrie off with Denham at the first sight of land.

And once again, he'd be without a First Mate.

It was like starting anew, and he was beginning to believe he was getting too old for that kind of thing. Maybe, after this run, he'd put in at Surabaya and take a few weeks off. Or, hell, maybe he'd go up to Rotterdam and talk to Alfus – God knew the old man loved to give advice.

He locked the ledger in one of the desk drawers and returned to the table, lifting the map from it. The table had been set up for a game of Stern-Halma, which Ashfield always called Chinese checkers, a rather ridiculous name in Englehorn's opinion, considering it had nothing at all to do with the Orient. It had become a ritual for them to play the game when they were both off duty.

Such hobbies were typical on ships like the _Venture_. Englehorn knew about the card games that took place in the galley and the forecastle, and he allowed the gambling to go on so long as it didn't disrupt the men's work. In the days before the Island, Hayes had played chess often with the men, but Englehorn and Ashfield never considered playing it, even outside the Captain's cabin. They viewed it as war game, and so they had not even a passing interest in it. Sometimes, they played draughts instead, but Ashfield preferred to play it with the crew because it actually gave him a chance at winning.

He folded up the map and set it aside, and he was considering starting up the gramophone when there was a knock on the door.

"Enter," he called, and the door opened, revealing Ashfield on the other side. "Ah," he said as the Brit sauntered in and closed the door. "So here you are. I was about to begin without you."

"I think that'd put me at a disadvantage."

"Not with the way you normally play. Maybe you'd actually win a match if you never showed up."

They pulled the two chairs up to the table and started the game without further conversation. Most of the time, they played only two games unless they needed a tiebreaker, and they rarely spoke for the duration. It wasn't so much a chance for socialization as it was a chance to just sit and exercise the mind a little.

Ashfield had his chatty moods though, and sometimes he'd ramble on and on about his family in Bombay. During such times, Englehorn said little, but he would admit, if only to himself, that he did like Ashfield's children. They reminded him of Liesl's girls, not so much in looks – where the Ashfields were dark and exotic, his nieces were fair and radiant – but in the level of their endless and invariable joyful energy. Even in the midst of war and inflation, he mused, a child could find something to brighten her day. It was that unfailing idealism that had always drawn him to children. If not for the War –

_If, if, if_, he thought. _None of it does a damn bit of good_.

He'd set aside his books and his dreams to do his duty. At the time, he hadn't realized how much of himself he was sacrificing.

The first game passed in silence, and Englehorn won it. Ashfield fared better in card games, but he carried on with the Stern-Halma games with a determination that Englehorn admired. Sometimes, though, he wondered if Ashfield lost on purpose, but he couldn't figure out why.

As the second game began, Ashfield said, "I understand Laura came to visit you."

"She did. Do you object?"

Ashfield looked up from the board, surprised. "To what?"

"To the fact that your sister visited a strange man, alone in his quarters."

"With respect, skipper," Ashfield said, returning his attention to the board, "Laura doesn't need me to defend her honor. She's a grown woman and a divorced one, at that."

The game continued for a few moments before Englehorn said, "What do the Americans say? She's a pistol?"

Ashfield chuckled and made a move that Englehorn had anticipated for the past two turns. "She had her own way of doing things sometimes. I heard she and you got into a bit of a row."

"It wasn't so bad as that. Merely a meeting of two minds that have two different ways of approaching a problem. Where'd you hear about it?"

"Kendrie was in the galley telling it to anyone who would listen."

Englehorn made a noncommittal noise and jumped two of Ashfield's marbles.

Ashfield made his next move like he hadn't even noticed the captain's action. "There's something off about that man."

"Just between you and me, I don't trust Kendrie any more than I'd trust a fox in a hen house."

"If you don't mind me asking, why did you hire him?"

"Because he was the best I could get at the time. He may be the sorriest sack of flesh I've ever met, but he's a hell of a sailor."

It took only a few more moves before Englehorn saw that he would win this match too. He said, "How's your sister's judgment, Ashfield?"

"You mean, in general?"

"I mean, about Beaufort."

Ashfield shrugged. "She's never been fond of the man. I didn't know him personally until now, but he's never really been on good terms with the family."

"She neglected to mention that."

"It's not something she likes to talk about. I'm not sure of the details myself, but I don't think it has anything specific to do with her. It was between Beaufort and my father."

Given what Miss Ashfield had said about Beaufort, Englehorn guessed she knew more about Beaufort than she let on – that or she at least suspected more. It seemed odd that, as the oldest son, Ashfield didn't show much interest in his family's affairs.

But Englehorn could hardly criticize him for a fault they shared.

With three more moves, the game went to Englehorn, and Ashfield pushed away from the table, accepting his loss with his typical lop-sided grin and a shrug of his shoulders. As the Englishman stood, Englehorn said, "Do me a favor, John; keep your eye on Kendrie."

"Spying on your own first mate?" Ashfield replied, raising an eyebrow.

"When he was in the galley, did he happen to mention that he insulted your sister?"

"No, he left that part out. What'd she do?"

"She slapped him."

Ashfield gave a curt nod. "That's my sister. I told you she doesn't need me. Frankly, I think he intended it to be a challenge to me, rather than a slander on Laura or yourself."

"Nothing untoward happened in this cabin, John."

"I know. But some of the men might believe him. And that's more your problem than mine or Laura's."

Englehorn leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. "They like him, don't they? They respect him."

"You said yourself: he's a fine sailor. They can appreciate that. And when it comes down to it, he takes their side over yours."

"I should have thrown him off when he started in on Starke, back in August. I mishandled that." He glanced at Ashfield, but the Brit stared back at him without expression. "If I get rid of him, do you think you can handle the job?"

Ashfield inhaled slowly, making no hasty decisions. That encouraged Englehorn; he didn't trust a man who jumped too quickly at such an opportunity. Ashfield knew the responsibilities that came with such a promotion.

"Don't answer me now," the captain said. "Give it consideration. But I'm serious about it, you understand."

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, and then he said, "What about Beaufort?"

"I'll handle him. If your sister is right and Beaufort is planning on going to that _verdammt_ Island, he can do it on some other ship."

As he watched the man leave, Englehorn found it odd that Miss Ashfield had not gone to him and told him what had happened in the cabin. But, then, Ashfield had made his point: she had made the decision on her own, and she could deal with the consequences on her own too.

Englehorn meant what he said about nothing untoward happening – he felt he was completely within his rights with what he said to her. He hadn't intended to frighten her or hurt her, and he'd done neither, as far as he could tell. All he wanted from her was a little credit in the running of his own ship, and perhaps a little respect as well. Because she would have to give him some if she expected any from him.

* * *

Just to note on the word "bitch" in this context: although contemporary uses suggest a spiteful, intrusive, or domineering woman, Kendrie uses the older implication of a "loose woman," which Laura would consider a far greater insult, even if it's not the worst one she's ever heard applied to her. 


	12. Interlude 5

To note: there were some brief revisions to the previous chapter in Englehorn's narrative about Kendrie and the _Venture_'s First Mates since Hayes. Just so everyone knows.

I expect to get these guys to the Island in three more posts, so hang in there. Soon enough, they'll get to put their more physical skills to use.

* * *

Interlude Five: The Faces of the Sisters 

"When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror.  
When the Powers of Darkness had dominion on our Soul –  
When we fled consuming through the Seven Hells of Fever,  
These put their hands to us and healed and made us whole."  
– Rudyard Kipling, "The Dirge of Dead Sisters"

October 1st, 1934

_She stands in a field in France, and the sky is heavy with clouds that are not clouds. The stench of death is so powerful she can taste it: a coppery splash of blood and fear. The maddening drone of the planes and the bombs grows louder and louder until it fills her head. Bodies fall from the sky, but they don't all wear the uniforms of the RAF. Some are from the infantry, and they are German and French and Belgian as well as British. She wants to get away, but her white skirt is heavy and stiff, caked with mud and blood. Her arms weigh so much she can barely lift them._

_She looks down, and sobs choke her at the sight of her red-black limbs. Has she been injured? She feels no pain – yet, if she has no wound, whose blood is it? She raises one hand to scratch at the other arm, and the blood flakes off her in feathery dark chunks. The bodies are stacked so high she can't see over them. She sits in a charnel ring, the eyes and mouths of the dead gaping at her as great black holes. She tries to move again, but she has nowhere to go._

_Something hard hits her shoulder, forcing her to the ground. She impacts with such force that it knocks the air out of her. The bodies are falling on her now, and she's gasping, trying to scream so someone will come for her – but nobody ever comes. She is always alone. Her mouth opens in the red-tinged darkness, but no sound ever escapes – _

Laura awoke on the floor; the solid hit on her shoulder had been the collision when she fell out of the bed. She sat up and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she drew her knees up to her chin, and she shivered despite the room's warmth.

A sliver of moonlight came in through the window, and eventually, she could see well enough to stand up and make sure Bridget's sleep continued undisturbed. She was curled up on her side of the bed, breathing in the gentle rhythm of a sound sleeper. Laura was pleased; she didn't want to explain her troubles to the girl.

She went to her trunk and checked her watch: just a little after four. Five hours of sleep would have to be enough for tonight. She'd functioned on less, and at least she didn't expect to exert herself much on the ship. For now, she'd take what she could get and not push the issue. Returning to bed was not an option, for fear of whom she might recognize in the charnel ring.

Dressing in the dark proved not much of a challenge, as she'd done it often enough in the past not to worry about buttoning her long-sleeved blouse wrong or tying her laces right. Matching didn't pose a problem either; most of her clothes were in neutral colors and tended to match without much effort on her part. She took care to choose a skirt with a little more give to it so her movement wouldn't be overly hindered.

While she pinned her hair up into a bun, she watched Bridget's restful sleep with a helpless sense of envy. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept all through the night. What peaceful thoughts had she to keep her company when she was seventeen? What waking nightmares had this pretty sleeping girl witnessed?

The answer to both questions: none.

She opened the door and exited the room, nearly stepping on John, who sat cross-legged against the wall in the hallway. He reached up and grabbed her arm to steady her unsure footing, closing the door with his other hand. They stared at each, an unspoken understanding passing between them: _You too, huh?_

"'I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,'" he said, quoting a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem.

Laura knelt next to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the coarse fabric of his shirt. He smelled like whiskey and cheap cigarettes, and on his clothing lingered a hint of the English perfume that Saroja liked so much. He returned the embrace, and they sat like that for several moments as they fought off the ghosts of the past.

How many times – during that summer after the War when they had stayed in the Matheran house – did she lay awake and listen to him cry out in his sleep, when her own dreams left her sobbing into her pillow? How many times did they sit on the balcony in the pre-dawn hours, unwilling to speak of the images that kept them from returning to their beds?

It did not go on forever; it could not. John found solace in an Indian girl, unconcerned that his marriage ruined his reputation and threatened his claim to his birthright. Laura made a better marriage but received no comfort from it. Only on the hunt or working with the animals could she put her mind at ease and forget the sound of bombs overhead and the screams of dying men. In time, they had days when the War was long in the past, a memory and nothing more.

And they had days when the War was a ghost appearing in the darkest hours to remind them that it was still very much a part of them, even after fifteen years.

She pulled away from him and sat beside him, holding his hand. "'Oh, what black hours we have spent this night,'" she said, quoting the same poem.

"What a sorry pair we make," he replied, "hiding from our own dreams."

"We're only human, John."

"Sometimes, I wake up down there and forget where I am. I look at those sleeping men and think, 'Just one moment – one more moment, and the torpedo hits and they're dying all over again.' But not me. Every time, I'm spared, and I never understand why."

"You shouldn't blame yourself for surviving. That's just the way of war."

"It's a damned ugly way to live."

"At least you're alive."

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, and then he got to his feet, offering a hand to help her stand. "I know where Vijay keeps the coffee; share some with me?"

Shaking her head as he pulled her up, she said, "Later, perhaps. I'm going on deck to get some air and clear my head."

"Until then," he replied, and he sauntered down the hallway, hands stuck in the pockets of his wrinkled dungarees.

She watched him go, and the last lines of the Hopkins poem came to mind: _I see the lost are like this, and their scourge to be as I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse_.

* * *

An hour later, she found herself in the hold, sitting among the cages and the boxes, staring at the tigress. In his corner cage, Carl Denham snored in soft slumber, and both females ignored him. Laura sat on a box, her feet dangling off the floor. Resting in the center of her cage, the tigress laid her head on her paws and watched the woman with eyes glowing like jewels in the shadows. 

_I have been where you are now_, Laura thought. _Sometimes I wonder – did I ever really escape_?

Denham's guard had gone; he'd asked Laura to watch the sleeping captive while he went up to the deck to smoke a cigarette. By way of excusing himself, he explained that Englehorn didn't allow smoking in the hold because it upset the animals. Laura showed her disinterest by ignoring him.

In the hold, the ship's sway was more pronounced, but Laura thought it comforting, like a distant memory of her ayah rocking her to sleep. The tigress rumbled a little, as though feeling the same brief feeling of comfort. If Laura could touch her, she knew she would feel the vibration of that noise all through the big cat's body.

The tigress laid back her ears and half-opened her mouth. The guard's boots sounded on the steps, hurried and heavy. He avoided looking at Laura, moving to his seat near Denham's cage, and then she was aware that he hadn't come down alone. Another figure stood in the dark near the stairs, and she realized that it was Englehorn.

He watched his man settle back into his guard duty, and then he glanced at the tigress. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep; her muscles tensed, ready to strike at him if he took a step closer. He made no such move, instead looking at Laura, and she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. After a moment, he turned and took the steps back up to the deck.

Laura stood, and her knees ached from sitting still for so long. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and gazed at the tigress as she passed the cage. Eyes slit half-open, the beast watched her go, the muscles rippling under the smooth, oily coat.

"Sorry, miss," the sailor said softly. "He caught me unawares on deck."

Without replying, Laura went up the stairs and into the cool pre-dawn air.

Englehorn stood near the rail, slipping a cigarette case into his coat pocket. "Was I not clear enough about people going into the hold?"

"I thought that only applied to your crew."

"It applies to everyone," he said, lighting the kretek cigarette. The heavy scent of cloves wafted over to her.

"Now I know." It was as close to an apology as she was willing to give him.

"I would consider it a personal favor if you would stay out of my hold from now on."

She dipped her head to him as a sign of her assent, and he returned with a brusque nod. For several moments, they stood facing each other without actually looking at each other, and then Englehorn crossed the deck and made for the wheelhouse stairs. Instead of watching him go, Laura stood and stared to the East as the first splashes of warm light began to break upon the darkened, cold horizon.

* * *

The poem quoted by John and Laura is "I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day," by Gerard Manley Hopkins. 


	13. Chapter 8

Apologies for the delay. I had a busy week. I hope it's worth the wait. The next chapter is already at leasthalfway done (it practically wrote itself), so it should be on time.

* * *

Chapter Eight  
October 2, 1934

Ashfield reclined on a crate on the bow, his back supported by a box he'd brought with him for just that purpose. With his feet propped up on the railing and his cap pulled low over his eyes, he looked like he was drowsing in the warm late morning air.

What he was actually doing was keeping an eye on Henry Beaufort and Horace Kendrie as they stood talking on the deck not far from the entrance to the hold.

He could just see them out of the corner of his eye, but because of the noise of the wind and the water, he couldn't hear them. Moving closer to them was an action he didn't want to risk taking, though by now, everyone on board knew of his frequent on-deck naps. Thus far, the two men had done nothing more interesting than smoke cigarettes, but this only made Ashfield more suspicious of the topic of their conversation.

A shadow fell over him, and a man cleared his throat to announce his presence. Ashfield recognized Robert by the smell of his cologne, something musky and woody and likely more expensive than Robert could realistically afford. He always had been a man who excelled at spending other people's money.

"Bobby," he said without looking up, "is there something I can do for you?"

"I thought it might be nice if we had a little chat."

Ashfield pushed up the edge of his cap with one finger, casting a doubtful look at the younger man. "A little what?"

"A talk," Robert said, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking sheepish. "Man to man, brother to brother. When was the last time we ever sat down and talked?"

"May 2nd, 1912," Ashfield answered promptly. "You were three, and it was the night before Laura and I left for England. You made me read 'Rikki-Tikki-Tavi' to you one last time. It was your favorite."

"Oh," said Robert, looking off at the horizon. "I don't remember."

_No surprise there_, Ashfield thought, glancing past Robert to check on Kendrie and Beaufort, who hadn't moved from the rail.

He remembered that day well – the last day of his childhood. The following afternoon, he and Laura had boarded the _Mary Agnes_, their transport to England and adulthood. Of the three children – Alice not arriving until two years later – John had been the only one with dry eyes. Robert had cried the tears of a toddler unable to understand why his playmates were leaving him; Laura had cried the tears of an angry child unwilling to accept her fate. She'd fallen asleep in their cabin with her eyes gummy and wet, and she'd awakened without a sound. For the entire twenty-four days of their journey, she'd maintained her silence, breaking it only when they saw the cliffs of Dover.

She'd said, "I hate them."

At the time, he'd thought she meant the cliffs.

"How was Berlin?" he asked suddenly, catching Robert off guard.

"What?"

"Berlin. Isn't that where Laura said you were when Denham contacted you?"

"Oh," Robert said, and he turned an uncomfortable shade of red. He glanced over his shoulder at Beaufort and Kendrie, and Ashfield saw at once his purpose. They had sent him up as a distraction; it was the only explanation for his sudden and awkward interest in a conversation with a brother he hadn't seen in fifteen years.

No sense in ruining the game too quickly. He could play along until he figured out exactly what they had planned.

"From what I hear, it's become a rather dangerous place," he said to Robert, "depending on who or what you are."

"What are you implying?" Robert asked, sounding more worried than angry. He kept fidgeting, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. At any other time, the effect might have been comical.

Ashfield shrugged. "You wanted to talk; I thought we were talking. I just wondered why you'd be in Berlin, given what all the newspapers have been saying about it."

Sweat broke out along Robert's forehead and while the air was warm and humid, Ashfield doubted it was the cause. "You know how newspapers can be," Robert said with less conviction than he had intended. "It's just sensational clap-trap meant to sell the rags. Things will change with the next election."

_If Hitler allows another election_, Ashfield thought.

Over Robert's shoulder, he saw a sailor come up out of the hold and say something to the two men on deck. Kendrie brushed past him and went down into the hold, followed quickly by Beaufort.

"What's he got planned, Bobby?" Ashfield asked, jerking his chin at the place where Kendrie and Beaufort had been standing.

Robert turned his head to look behind him and said, "Huh?"

"Can't stay out of trouble, can you?" Ashfield said, going around Robert to the steps. The other man reached out and grabbed his shirtsleeve to stop him.

"It'd be better if you stayed here with me," he said.

Ashfield jerked out of his grasp and curled up his fist, holding back only when he realized he was about to hit his baby brother. Maybe Robert could lower himself to backstab his siblings, but Ashfield had no desire to stoop to that level.

He jogged down the steps, and the sailor on the other side of the deck looked up at him before lowering his head and going down into the hold. Ashfield considered going after him before deciding that wasn't a good idea. He cursed himself for waiting to do anything; he should have gone straight to Englehorn.

No matter. Once he alerted the captain, Beaufort and Kendrie would be put back in their places.

At the stairs to the wheelhouse, he passed a tow-headed American sailor and Danny, the cabin boy. They stopped their conversation to glance at him curiously as he looked up at the helm. Leonard stood alone at the wheel.

"Something wrong, Mr. Ashfield?" Danny asked.

"Where's the Captain?"

Danny blinked, as though taking the question with great seriousness. "Down in the galley, I think."

Ashfield muttered his thanks before continuing along the deck. He made it four steps before something hard smashed into the back of his head. Reeling forward, he dropped to his knees and reached out to grip the rail for support. His vision blurred, and a strong, hairy arm circled his neck, tightening until he gasped for breath. He tried to lift his arms to fight back, but his head felt so foggy that he couldn't tell if they moved or not.

His last thought before he blacked out was of Saroja and the way she'd held him in the dark the night before he left.

* * *

In the galley, Laura and Bridget played cribbage with a board and cards borrowed from Vijay, the Indian cook. They were in a tiebreaker, and Laura could see that she had little hope of winning. Bridget already had ten points over her, and at present, she was counting out a twelve-point crib. The girl continually had good hands; it was a lucky streak Laura couldn't rival.

"And that makes twelve," Bridget said as she moved her peg. Grinning, she gathered up the cards and handed them to Laura.

"I don't know why I'm bothering," Laura said as she shuffled the deck. "Not much I can do against a lead like that."

"Oh, don't say that, Miss Ashfield," said Bridget, but she continued to grin. "Maybe your luck will change."

With an affected sigh, Laura dealt out the cards. In the storeroom off the kitchen, Englehorn and Vijay went over the inventory to determine what provisions to take on when the _Venture_ docked in Hong Kong in two days. This included meat for the three tigers; only two goats remained in the hold, and that would last the carnivores another week at best.

"Those two barrels will have to be replaced," Englehorn said as the two men came back into the galley. "Why didn't you see that when they were brought on?"

"They wasn't like that on the dock," Vijay replied. He was a short, thin man, and his baggy shirt and dungarees hung on him like empty sacks. He wore no shoes, his feet tough as leather, and he made no sounds when he moved about on the wooden floor. "I even checked them twice."

Englehorn made a notation on his clipboard. "I believe you, Vijay. But next time, have someone else check them too. Last thing we need is to run out of water in the middle of the Pacific."

Vijay mulled this over before deciding it wasn't a personal attack on him or his work performance. He said, "Aye, skipper."

"As for the rest of it, we'll follow standard procedure and replace the stores we've used up. With luck, we'll be able to get all we need without spending too much money."

"You send me to do the haggling," Vijay said. "Kendrie don't know how to deal with them Chinamen. They cheat him, and then they giggle when his back's turned."

Bridget, who had just picked up three more points from the play, turned around in her chair and asked, "Will we passengers be able to disembark in Hong Kong, Captain? I've always wanted to see the Orient."

Englehorn looked at the women like he was noticing them for the first time. "We won't be in port long enough for you to do any sight-seeing," he said. "You won't be missing much."

"I've always heard that Hong Kong is a lovely city," replied Bridget, and she looked to Laura for conformation.

"Having never been there myself," said Laura, "I'm afraid I can't comment. Considering the nature of the dock a ship like the _Venture_ is likely to draw, it would probably be best if we stayed onboard."

"That is no doubt true in Miss Elmund's case," Englehorn said.

Laura chose to ignore him; unsure as she was about his implication, she doubted he meant it in a complimentary way. She felt his eyes on her and Bridget as they counted out their hands, Bridget gaining further advantage with six points to Laura's four.

"It seems to me, Miss Ashfield," said Englehorn as he made another mark on the clipboard, "that card games aren't a suitable pastime for well-bred ladies such as yourself and Miss Elmund."

"And it seems to me, Captain Englehorn," replied Laura, "that there are relatively few activities aboard this ship that are suitable for well-bred ladies such as ourselves."

He lowered the clipboard, and Laura thought he actually looked amused. The tension had left his face, and his mouth pulled up a bit at the edges. He said, "I thought you weren't expecting a cruise."

"I wasn't. I merely suggest that we must adapt as best we can."

"Does that include teaching your young companion questionable card games?"

Laura wrinkled her brow and reached for her crib. "It's only cribbage, Captain; hardly a game of ill repute. Considering how well she's winning, she needs no instruction from me."

Bridget actually blushed.

"Besides," Laura continued, "I can't offer her any guidance in the more lady-like activities, considering how poorly I took to them myself. Perhaps the only thing I can truly teach her is how to start thinking for herself."

"A dangerous skill for any woman to have," he replied.

Laura glanced up at him, but the expression on his face had become unreadable. She couldn't tell if he was patronizing her or not.

"It is an essential skill for a woman without a husband," she said. "She must learn to think if she's to survive."

"But you had a husband, Laura," said Bridget gently.

"I did, indeed, for nine years. And what did I ever get from him? Headaches, mostly. Flowers and jewelry, neither of which I've ever had much use." She shrugged and rubbed her temple, as though just thinking of Will made her head hurt. "I married a man who believes in love, which is always a mistake for a woman who doesn't."

"How can you not believe in love?" asked Bridget, sure that Laura was teasing her.

"Love is something you read about in books or see on a movie screen," replied Laura, and her tone suggested she had considered this a fundamental truth for quite some time. "It's something people use to get what they want out of other people."

Bridget shook her head. "I don't believe that. Love is real; it's special. It brings us together, and that's the way it's supposed to be. A man needs a woman, and a woman needs a man."

Laura smiled indulgently. "Bridget, a woman needs a man for only one thing, and fortunately, that need not be an extended experience."

Englehorn let out a harsh laugh that had no humor in it at all, and Vijay turned and giggled his way back into the kitchen. With a blank expression, Laura began gathering the cards, taking Bridget's from her loose fingers. The girl looked from Laura to the men and back, confusion apparent on her face.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Forget I said anything," replied Laura. "I shouldn't have said anything." She stacked the cards and shuffled them, ramming them together with ferocity. "I'm a silly, stupid woman who doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut."

A thoughtful expression crossed Englehorn's face, and he began to respond when Danny stumbled into the room, bumping against the table. Bridget shrieked in surprise.

"Captain," the cabin boy said, pulling in breath with great gasps, "it's Mr. Ashfield. He's passed out up on the deck." His eyes were wide and white, and he licked his cracked lips. "I think he was attacked."

Englehorn growled angry German curses under his breath and dropped the clipboard on the table. Grabbing Danny by the shoulder, he shoved him through the doorway and up the steps to the deck.

Laura stood, placing a hand on Bridget's shoulder. "Stay here," she said and moved toward the door. "Vijay?"

"I'll look after her, ma'am," Vijay replied.

Bridget grabbed Laura's hand, holding her back, and she spoke in a plaintive voice. "Don't go. It's a trap."

Pulling her hand out of the girl's grasp, Laura stared at her. "A trap? Why? For whom?"

"Uncle Henry told me so I wouldn't be scared when it started. He made me promise not to say anything about it. He and Mr. Denham and Mr. Kendrie are taking over the ship."

"A mutiny!" Vijay cried, and he dropped the pan he'd been holding.

"Son of a bitch," Laura said. She ran up the steps, her boots thunderous on the wood. Bridget called after her, but she didn't understand a word.

On deck, she heard the sounds of the fight before she saw it. Men shouted at each other, too many voices converging for her to distinguish the individual words. Several men stood at the rail, staring at the bow of the ship and talking in low voices. Laura pushed past them, making her way along the deck.

Ten men stood near the entrance to the hold, all of them shouting, some of them holding up their fists. Englehorn stood in the middle of the group, and nobody seemed to be listening to him. Kendrie came up out of the hold, and the sun glinted off something metal in his hand. Englehorn faced away from him, and as the First Mate raised his arm, Laura realized he was going to backstab the German.

One of the other men – she recognized him as Starke – saw it too, and he must have warned Englehorn, because the captain turned abruptly and took a slicing strike to the shoulder rather than a straight blow to the back.

With first blood drawn, the crowd frenzied, and the men stopped yelling and started fighting. Behind them, Laura saw John leaning against the railing, one hand inspecting the back of his head. Then he seemed to notice what was happening in front of him, and he pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the fray.

Laura didn't think about what she was doing: one moment, she stood by the wheelhouse and the next, she ran down to the lower deck, her breath caught in her throat. It was stupid and rash, but she found that she didn't care. Her only thought was of John and getting to him before he was seriously injured, before Kendrie turned that knife on him.

She was less than four meters from the men when an arm seized her from behind, wrapping around her waist. She fought it, trying to push her attacker away, but the arm tightened around her, pulling her close against a muscled chest and stomach. Her captor grabbed her left arm and jerked it behind her back with such force that bolts of pain shot through her shoulder and chest. Whiskey and smoke filled her nostrils, and a rag closed over her nose and mouth, and the heavy smell of chloroform overpowered everything else.

Someone far away called her name, and then she knew nothing but darkness.


	14. Chapter 9

As always, much love to my reviewers and readers. Knowing that you guys are eager to read new chapters makes me feel guilty when I'm being lazy. So, no long waits for this one.

* * *

Chapter Nine  
October 2, 1934

The first sense that returned to her was smell, and it disoriented her. She smelled hay and excrement and the anxious odor of caged animals. Any moment, she expected to hear Libby's raspy southern voice yelling at Togo to cut the crap and jump through the goddamn hoop or she'd _give_ him something to growl about. 

But Laura wasn't in the Schultz & Yarrow menagerie, and that fact hit her full force when she turned her head to the side and felt a weight slam across her forehead in the form of a chloroform hangover. Her shoulder ached, but she considered herself lucky that her attacker hadn't managed to dislocate it. Now that she had a chance to think about it, she was sure that man had been Beaufort.

She tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea kept her from getting too far. Gulping, she realized she was going to vomit, and she leaned over to the side. A pair of arms reached under her armpits and remembering Beaufort, Laura struggled weakly against them. But they supported her rather than trapped her, and she relaxed as they turned her so her stomach could purge itself without making a mess in her lap. Her forehead pressed against cold metal bars; the arms tried to position her so that most of the sick fell on the other side of the cage.

When she was done, she groaned and leaned back against the arms, which she now recognized as John's. Her stomach settled, but the nausea remained, and her head pounded. Each beat of her heart sounded like thunder in her ears.

"Easy," John said. "It's the chloroform does that."

"Where are we?" Her voice sounded fuzzy and hoarse.

"Locked up tight in the hold. I always wondered what it was like on the other side of the bars, but I really wasn't _this_ interested."

She grimaced, partly because of him and partly because of the pain in her arm. "What happened?"

"I guess you could say that Beaufort and Kendrie won. Keep still; let it pass. We came out alright, at least."

She made herself still and quiet, and she lost track of how long they sat like that, mostly because the pounding in her head distracted her from thinking too hard.

The light overhead was dim, which she took to mean that day had passed into night during her induced sleep. When she felt strong enough, she lifted her wrist and stared at her watch; she had to focus to keep the numbers from swimming around on the dial. It read half past seven, meaning that she had slept deeply for almost six hours. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept that long without some sort of disturbance.

As the chloroform stupor faded, she became more aware of their surroundings, and her eyes adjusted in the muted light. From where she sat, she could see the cell across from them, which contained three sailors: the shantyman Starke, a man called Fisher, and a Swede whose name Laura didn't know. None of them looked injured, but neither did they look particularly pleased about their situation. To their right, on the stairs leading to the deck, sat a guard playing a game of solitaire and mostly ignoring the prisoners.

Laura sat up and looked past John to gauge the full size of their cage: almost four meters long and about three meters wide, making it one of the larger cages in the hold, probably made for containing the bigger mammals. In the middle of the cell stood a short stack of crates, and Captain Englehorn sat on one of them, his back to John and Laura. Across his left shoulder was a gash in his shirt, and dried blood caked the fabric.

"We didn't all come out alright," she said, pushing away from John.

Englehorn said, "The bleeding's stopped. I'll survive."

_Sure_, Laura thought, _until you get tetanus._ Her fingers itched to take care of it – an open wound in these surroundings was an invitation to infection of some kind. For now, though, she'd let him brood.

Turning to the other cage, she asked, "Are you men over there okay? Any injuries?"

"Only to our egos, love," replied Starke. "Fisher's got a right pretty shiner, but that's only because Hardy don't like it when anyone's got a nicer face than him." Fisher glared at him sullenly, which only prompted the Cockney man to chuckle.

"Starke," Englehorn said sharply.

The sailor immediately lost his mirth. "Sorry, skipper."

"Just so long as you're all in one piece," said Laura. She sat up on her knees and grabbed John by the shoulders, pushing him so that he faced away from her. "Let me take a look at your head."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm okay. Look after Englehorn, will you?"

"He can wait a few more minutes. I want to make sure your damage is only superficial."

"Laura –"

"Don't argue," she replied and pulled his hand away from his head. "How's the pain?"

He shrugged. "Not so bad now."

She located the bump easily and felt around it to test for softness. He winced but didn't jerk away from her. "Any dizziness? Vomiting?"

"No."

"What's your birthdate?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question, John."

"December 23, 1898."

"How about Alice's?"

He paused. "April, 1914. I've never been sure of the day."

Satisfied that she couldn't feel any liquid under the skin around the bump, she turned him around again to examine his pupils. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she hoped the damage wasn't any worse than it appeared to be. Just to tease him, she said, "Recite Hamlet's soliloquy from _Act II, scene ii_."

"Stop it," he said, pushing her hands away from him. "Now you're just showing off." Not one to ignore a challenge, though, he added, "'Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave I am,' indeed."

She leaned back from him and shook her head. "That's gratitude. Well, I don't think you've any blood on the brain. There's no way to tell for sure, unless you start acting funny."

"How will you know the difference?" Starke called.

Managing a small smile, Laura held one hand out to John and gathered a handful of skirt in the other. "Help me up, will you?"

He held on to her hand, supplying support as she got to her feet. She wobbled a bit before finding her equilibrium then brushed herself off.

Moving toward Englehorn, she said, "Your turn, Captain. Let me help you with your shirt."

He glanced back at her over his uninjured shoulder, a swift move that made him grimace. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"That's going to get infected if it isn't dressed."

"I'll take care of it."

"It'll be easier if you just let me do it."

"Best to do as she says, skipper," said John as he leaned back against the bars. "Live to fight another day and all that."

Englishman scowled at the Englishman then glanced at Laura's hands. He said, "If you insist."

"I do," Laura replied, and he began to unbutton his shirt.

He winced as he slid his right arm out of the shirt, and she helped him with the left side, slipping it off his arm as he held still. The undershirt was stiff with all the blood it had soaked up, and it took a bit of effort for them to manipulate it over his head. As the undershirt came off, a chain fell down around his neck, pulled by something heavy on the end of it. Laura didn't get a chance to identify it; Englehorn grabbed it, removed it, and stuffed it into a pocket, all the while avoiding eye contact with her. She pretended she hadn't even noticed.

The wound had not fully clotted, and the movements of his arm started the bleeding again. It gaped at her, an eight-inch cut running diagonal along his shoulder blade. It wept blood as she inspected it; fortunately, it was not too deep and had not hit any arteries or main veins. He'd heal well enough and without much permanent damage. Starke's warning had likely saved his life.

She set out the shirt across another crate to let it air; the undershirt she gripped by the bloody hole and ripped it down the center. The back was rather useless, but the front would do for cleaning the injury. What she would do for a bandage she hadn't quite decided on yet.

John seemed to understand what she was thinking. "We sent Miss Elmund up for water and the emergency kit," John said. "She was down here apologizing and wanted to be of help."

"Then I can clean the wound properly," Laura said. She looked at Englehorn's back, crusted with blood that had run down from the wound. "And I can wash away all this blood."

"I don't need you to bathe me, Miss Ashfield," Englehorn said.

"And leave you with a bloody back? I should think not. Damned unsanitary. I'm offended you even suggested such a thing."

"I can –"

"I'm sure you can. But I won't let you, and that's that."

She had just finished tearing the undershirt into strips when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Bridget descended into the hold, cradling a stack of grayish rags in one arm and carrying a jug of water in her other hand. With her load, she stumbled a bit, but the sailor on guard offered her no assistance. Taking care to avoid contact with him, she made it down without dropping anything.

"Oh, Miss Ashfield," she said as she approached the cage, "I'm so pleased to see that you're well. I –" She stopped in both speech and action as she noticed the captain. The girl's face turned bright red, and she averted her eyes, looking everywhere but at Englehorn. Laura doubted she'd ever seen a man's bare chest before; she could only imagine what the reaction would be if she saw his bloody back.

Laura excused her for it, given her age and upbringing. The fact of the matter for Laura was that nothing about the human body could embarrass or discomfort her, not after all that she had seen and done. Even well bred British girls had to get over that kind of thing when they worked in a field hospital.

Laying aside the strips she'd made, Laura moved to the bars and said, "Come over here and give me what I need."

Bridget obeyed, staring at the floor the entire time.

"Where's the emergency kit?" Laura asked.

"Mr. Kendrie wouldn't let me have it. Vijay gave me the rags, so long as I promised not to tell on him."

"They'll do," Laura said as she took them from the girl. From the feel of the fabric, she guessed they had once been used as sheets; some of them were cut into long strips, and they'd serve as fine wraps for Englehorn's shoulder. She suddenly had much more respect for the cook.

Bridget leaned closer to the bars and said, "I don't like him."

"Who, Vijay? Why not?"

"No, I mean Mr. Kendrie. He says everyone should call him Captain now."

Laura only frowned and asked, "What about an antiseptic?"

Bridget pulled a little glass bottle from her pocket, and Laura recognized it as the carbolic acid she kept in her hunting pack. "Robert told me where to find it."

"He actually did something right for once," said Laura as she took the bottle.

"I brought this too," said Bridget, holding out a roll of adhesive tape, also taken from Laura's pack. "I thought it might help with the bandages."

"Excellent work," Laura replied, and the girl flushed at the praise. "Give the men over there a drink and then bring the water back to me."

Again, Bridget obeyed, and she looked relieved to turn away from Englehorn. She pulled a tin cup from the jug and filled it before handing it to Starke.

"Vijay said he'd make some porridge for you," she said as Starke drank, "after he feeds the rest of the crew."

"He's not a bad sort, that Hindoo," Starke said as he passed the cup back to her.

Laura, carrying the bundle of rags over to Englehorn, agreed. She was pleased with what the cook had sent down; there would be enough not only for one but several dressings. She'd have to leave the bandages on longer than she liked, but it was a concession she was willing to make.

She set aside the rags she would use later, selecting one of the longer strips to use for the first bandage. One of the smaller one she chose to use to clean the wound, and another two she would used to wash and dry Englehorn's back. She wondered if it was too much to hope that Beaufort and Kendrie would allow him a clean shirt.

Bridget returned with the water jug, and Laura insisted that the two men have a cup of water before she drank. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until the water slid down her throat, flushing away the cottony feeling that had developed in her mouth.

The jug would not fit through the bars, so Laura had Bridget pour another cupful for her. Taking it over to Englehorn, she used it to clean the wound, a perfunctory washing to flush out any dirt and the excess blood. When the cut was pink and clean and no longer seeping liquid, she emptied the cup through the bars at the far end of the cage and returned to Bridget for another fill-up.

To this cup, she added a few drops of the carbolic acid, just enough to make it a viable antiseptic solution. Bridget watched her attentively, and to her credit, she asked no questions.

Taking up her fresh cleaning rag, Laura used her finger to make a dent in the fabric and wound the rest of the rag around her hand to keep it tight. Dipping her finger into the solution, she gave it a stir to mix in the acid. When she removed her finger, she wiped off the excess liquid so that it wouldn't drip.

"Well," she said, placing her left hand above the cut on Englehorn's shoulder.

He drew in a deep breath, his muscles contracting and bunching under her fingers. Then he let out the air slowly, the tension releasing, and his arms went slack as his shoulders slumped. His breathing fell into an easy, relaxed rhythm, which Laura took to mean he was ready for her to begin.

She knew how painful it would be; she'd undergone the procedure herself several times. It didn't do much for preventing scars, but she doubted Englehorn had the vanity to care about something so trivial. He already had a number of scars, mostly on his arms, and one running horizontal along his right side looked like it came from a gunshot wound. One more wouldn't make much of a difference.

It was a long process, and she drew it out to make sure the wound was as clean as she could get it. The last thing she wanted to do was treat an infection, particularly when she had nothing with which to properly treat it. She'd seen men die of smaller wounds and in more sanitary conditions.

_That's how frail human life is_, she thought, unwrapping the rag from her hand when she was satisfied with the job she'd done. _One little organism is all it takes._

"I'll bandage it now," she said.

He grunted his assent.

"It's not too deep, but it'll leave a scar."

Again, he merely grunted.

She wrapped the long strip of rag into a neat rectangle and placed it over the wound, pushing down on it to make sure it put on enough pressure to help with the clotting. Englehorn made no noise, but the muscles in his jaw tightened as she pressed.

John tore off the strips of adhesive for her and taped the make-shift bandage to Englehorn's back. The brownish tape wasn't particularly strong and would have to be replaced before the rag, but it would hold long enough to let the healing begin.

With a fresh cup of water, she cleaned Englehorn's back, scrubbing some to get rid of the caked-on blood. After drying him off, she stepped back, gave a curt nod, and said, "And that will have to do."

"It's not bad work," he said, rubbing the bandage with his right hand. She pushed it away, giving him a reproving look.

"It should be good work," she replied. She picked up his shirt and offered it to him. "I served as a nurse in the War."

"I know. You have the hands of a War nurse." He slipped on the shirt, adding, "You must have been very young."

"I was. But I was still old enough to watch people die."

He lowered his head, pretending to concentrate on doing his buttons up right. "So was I."

_So were they all_. She looked at John, but she thought of two young men who had also been old enough to die for their countries.

She took the cup back to Bridget, who stared at her with renewed wonder.

"Were you really a War nurse?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"For two years," Laura replied. Now that she was done with Englehorn, fatigue had settled into her, and she sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them.

"Does that mean I can call you Sister Laura?" Bridget teased.

Laura told herself that Bridget did not understand their situation and therefore did not understand that her humor, innocent as it was, went unappreciated. In a toneless voice, she said, "I was a volunteer, not a Sister. Do they say what they're going to do with us, Bridget? Have you heard anything?"

"We're still stopping in Hong Kong as planned," Bridget said, "and then we're going to turn back west. Robert and Mr. Denham are going to have Uncle Henry put you off at port, so at least you won't have to stay down here much longer."

"He's agreed to do that?" Laura asked doubtfully.

Bridget hesitated, answer enough for Laura. "Mr. Denham said they'd convince him it's the best course of action. I'm sure Uncle Henry will agree."

Not for the first time since meeting the girl, Laura fought with the urge to grab her and shake her, to knock some sense into her. She had the feeling that would not be enough to fully open Bridget's eyes. Something deep down in her – perhaps a long forgotten trace of maternal tenderness – did not want to see Bridget's innocence smashed, and it kept her from lashing out at the poor girl in frustration.

"Go back up to the deck," Laura said in a quiet voice.

"Oh, please don't be upset, Miss Ashfield," said Bridget, clinging to the bars. "Uncle Henry's sorry for what he did, he really is. He just didn't know what else to do. He'll make up for it, I know he will. And he wouldn't have thrown you over, not really."

John groaned. "You had to mention that didn't you?"

Laura lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. "Mention what?"

"I –," Bridget said, but she couldn't find the words she wanted. She looked at the two men helplessly.

Softly, Englehorn said, "It's time you left, Miss Elmund. You've done enough for us tonight."

Bridget gave them a last forlorn look before turning and running up the stairs to the deck.

Facing John, Laura said, "What did she mean?"

Before John could make up something, Englehorn said, "Tell her, Ashfield. No sense in keeping it from her."

"Keeping what from me?" Laura demanded.

"When Beaufort knocked you out," John said, all the while looking at Laura's feet and no where else, "he threatened to throw you overboard if we didn't surrender the boat to him."

Laura absorbed this information before saying, "You shouldn't have given in to him."

John's head shot up. "And what would you have me tell Mum? That I allowed Beaufort to chuck you over just so her two useless sons could come home to her? You honestly think I could live with myself if I let something like that happen to you?"

"It was a bluff," she said, though she didn't sound like she believed it. "He manipulated you to get what he wanted."

"It wasn't his decision to make, Miss Ashfield," said Englehorn. "It's my ship, after all. It may be all I have, but it's not worth the loss of human life, even if it was only a bluff."

"One life, Captain. How many more lives will be lost when Beaufort makes landfall on that Island? You, more than anyone, are in the best position to make that estimate."

"At least we'll be able to get there. If he hadn't had you to bargain with, he might have let Kendrie kill us all. We were outnumbered anyway; even without Beaufort's threat, we would have lost the ship. Maybe you saved our lives."

Laura frowned and rested her forehead against her knees. "But for how long?"

"I'd have thought you'd know that even one day of life is a blessing to a man who knows that death can come at any moment." With a wry smile, he added, "Perhaps Miss Elmund is right and Beaufort will deign to show mercy on us a second time."

No one said anything more after that, not even when Bridget and Danny came down with bowls of lukewarm porridge for them. Later, while resting her head on John's shoulder as she drifted into sleep, Laura thought of her father, and when she fell asleep, she dreamed of her childhood – of jungles and wild animals, of her parents young and smiling, of John with his dreaming eyes and carefree laugh, of a lightness in her head and chest that she could only describe as happiness.

In the morning, it had faded, so that its images were little more than distant memories. It was the sweetest dream she'd had since 1916, and yet it hurt more than any other.

* * *

I'm beginning to wonder if it's written law that Englehorn has to appear shirtless at least once in a fic where he's playing a main part. I resisted, but my will was just not strong enough. 


	15. Interlude 6

Sorry for the delay. Tropical storms will do that to you. Also, the next post will be on the 27th (two weeks from now). Just a little warning.

This interlude isactually a combination of three short narratives, which lead us up to the arrival at the Island. I really do like Carl and Robert, and I wanted to do something from their perspectives. So, here ya go.

* * *

Interlude Six: Part One: No Anodyne for Pain

"Only the Lord can understand  
When those first pangs begin,  
How much is reflex action and  
How much is really sin."  
- Rudyard Kipling, "The Comforters"

October 5, 1934  
Hong Kong

Robert Ashfield stood on the deck of the _Venture_ and watched the bustling activity of the Hong Kong harbor. After a day in port – long enough to restock the store room and sell off Englehorn's three tigers – the boat was leaving the way she came, heading southwest along the coast.

Kendrie and a select few men had been the only ones to disembark. Beaufort himself hadn't left the steamer, though he'd stood on deck and pointed out some of the finer landmarks to Miss Elmund.

And despite Robert's and Denham's requests, the six prisoners in the hold remained there. Neither Kendrie nor Beaufort had shown any interest in letting them go.

Denham had brought it up first, immediately after the mutiny. He'd taken it for granted that the captives would be released in Hong Kong.

"What do we need them for?" he'd asked Beaufort. "Best to let them go than have to worry about them."

Robert had been relieved that he hadn't had to bring up the topic. Bad enough that Beaufort had used Laura as a bargaining chip – if that was part of the original plan, he had not mentioned it to Robert. He, like Denham, saw no reason to keep Englehorn and the rest on board, not when they could cause trouble.

Beaufort had laughed that off. "This isn't Englehorn's crew anymore – it's mine. They'll go where I tell them to go."

He had not, Robert noted, said this in front of Kendrie, with whom he maintained a somewhat deferential air. The _Venture_'s new captain thus believed that he had complete control of the situation, which Robert knew better than to believe himself. Only one man was in charge here, and it certainly wasn't Kendrie.

Robert had added his pleas to Denham's in vain.

"We'll need them on the Island," Beaufort had said, grimacing in a way that suggested he didn't like the idea any more than Robert did, albeit for different reasons.

"But, I – "

"You," Beaufort interrupted, "will do as I say and nothing else. Your family may know nothing of your life in Berlin, but I am not so ignorant. I may well have saved your life, Robert. You know well enough what the Nazis do with men like you."

Robert had left the galley at that point, retreating as he usually did in the face of conflict. In his own twisted way, Beaufort was right. If not for him, Robert might have been in Berlin on the night of June 29th – the night that was now being called the Night of Long Knives.

He'd avoided Beaufort after that little discussion, out of shame more than fear. Beaufort had not included him in his plans for the Island beyond his manipulation of the other Ashfields, which Robert had gone along with only because he'd believed John and Laura wouldn't be harmed. Now that his part was done, Beaufort ignored him, leaving him to wallow in his regrets.

Turning away from the lights of Hong Kong, he went below decks, to the passenger quarters, where he met a guard bringing Laura up from the privy. Beaufort had at least allowed the prisoners use of the washing facilities, though Robert guessed he did this because Bridget requested it on Laura's behalf. He'd also agreed to let her change clothes: Laura now wore an oversized blue shirt tucked into an altered pair of dungarees. Ridiculous as she looked, she'd made the point that blouses and skirts could not be considered appropriate attire for her current situation. Bridget had altered the clothing for her; none of the prisoners could go back to their old quarters for any reason.

Laura avoided looking at him as he pressed against the wall to let her pass. He opened his mouth, trying to find some way to let her know how sorry he was for all of this.

"Don't speak to me," she said, before he could say anything. "You're a coward, Robert; I don't want anything to do with you."

She hadn't even slowed as she spoke, and she was gone before he could reply – not that he knew what to say to her, because she was right.

What could he have told them about his time in Berlin? That he'd spent eight months in a Nazi prison for attending a drag show? That his nationality made no difference to his captors? That nearly all his friends in Berlin were held in high suspicion by the Nazis for being either "social degenerates" or political enemies? That only scant days before he left, he had been put on a list of known homosexuals in Berlin?

He suspected that Laura could guess at the truth, because she already knew of his lifestyle. And he had only himself to blame for that – if he hadn't gotten greedy and asked Nicklo for more money, she would never have known. She wouldn't have had to pay his debts for him, a gesture she made not out of generosity but to keep the truth from their parents. She'd handed over the check and told him to get the hell out of New York before they found out about it. It was enough that the Ashfields had no money and that their heir had thrown away any decency he had left by marrying an Indian servant girl – they certainly didn't need it known that their younger son was involved in a sex scandal that could make grown men blush with shame.

She'd meant well, for both him and the family. The shock of it would have quite possibly killed poor Margaret, and Sir Walter's health had already started to fail. Of course, Laura knew those kinds of people too, but they were "Hollywood," and a person couldn't expect them to be respectable. Besides, Laura didn't follow the lifestyle the way he did, and she had the added bonus of a husband who came from "good people," even if she didn't love him.

So he'd gone to Paris and shilled himself off as an English tutor, though he mostly just kept company with wealthy widows and the lonely wives of rich men. No one thought him odd or out of place. At a club called _Coeur d'Or_, he met Claud Fleishner, better known on the cabaret circuit as Fraulein Krüppel A club foot earned Claud his stage name, but it was his silvery, high-pitched voice that made him a success. With him, Robert felt, for the first time in his life, comfortable with himself. They'd gone to Berlin to capitalize on the cabaret business there, and for a while, they'd had no concerns beyond how to cure their latest hangovers.

And then, while at a bar with another friend, Robert had discovered just how dangerous Berlin had become.

How had he repaid Claud for three years of companionship? How had he demonstrated his love for that brilliant, beautiful man?

The Nazis had reduced his sentence for information about the cabaret chanteuse who called herself Fraulein Krüppel. When they released him, they'd laughed and slapped him and told him to give kisses to all the pretties so he could come back and be with Fraulein Krüppel and live happily ever after. Four days later, Carl's telegram arrived, and Robert left Berlin. He hadn't even said goodbye to Claud, hadn't even tried to warn him.

Laura was right; he was nothing but a coward. No matter how much she despised him, she could not rival the hatred that he carried for himself.

* * *

Interlude Six: Part Two: Earned Peace Is All He Asks

"All the lore of No-Man's Land  
Steels his soul and arms his hand."  
- Rudyard Kipling, "The Expert"

October 14, 1934

The horn woke Englehorn – the deep, solemn horn that rumbled through the ship. He felt it in his bones, and a chill dread followed it. The blasting of the horn meant only one thing.

Across the aisle, his three loyal sailors gazed at each other with dead, empty eyes. They had all stepped foot on that _verdammt_ rock – _was that why they stood by me?_ he wondered – and he knew that, like him, they had no wish to return.

Ashfield continued his game of solitaire, tilting his head just a bit at the sound of the horn. Miss Elmund did her best to fulfill the needs of Beaufort's prisoners, and when Ashfield had asked for a deck of cards, she'd brought him one. She also brought him books from his personal collection; she explained that she had removed his things from his bunk in the crew's quarters and taken them to her room to prevent the other men from stealing them. Englehorn admired her foresight if not her sense of loyalty.

Laura Ashfield leaned against the cage's bars, her forehead banging against the metal as she swayed with the ship's movement. He thought at first that she was asleep, and then he saw that her eyes were open; she stared at a spot on the floor. If she thought of anything, Englehorn guessed that she thought of her father.

She slept little, neither did she speak much in her waking hours. Her attention to Englehorn's wound continued with diligence, but even that she did in silence. Infection had been thwarted, no doubt as a result of her rigorous use of the carbolic solution. The memory of that pain still made his eyes water, but it had been a small price to pay. She'd taken as much care as she could with it, suggesting that she knew the sensation herself, and he wondered where a lady like her had picked up a wound that required deep antiseptic treatment.

He'd known a fair number of British ladies – some he'd known on more intimate terms than others – and if he'd learned one thing from the lot of them, it was that a man couldn't assume they had anything in common. He supposed this was true of women in general, but Laura Ashfield's case was made more interesting by the fact that she had been a War nurse.

It had been obvious at their first meeting on the docks of Bombay and not because of her hands. The War was written into the little lines of her face, and he heard it in the harshness of her laugh, saw it in the way her smile never reached her eyes. All of it told him that she had watched men die, some of them despite what she had done to save them. Because she still carried that bitterness with her, he doubted that she had come out of the War with anything that could give her hope for humanity.

He recognized that in her because it was what had happened to him.

The horn sounded again.

"Why don't anyone tell him?" Gutson, the Swede, asked. "He won't find what he's looking for."

"Yes, he will," Miss Ashfield said without lifting her head. "Because death is what he seeks."

"Listen!" Ashfield said, straightening. He cocked his head. "Do you hear that?"

They quieted, straining to hear. Water slapped against the hull, and the ship creaked as it broke against the waves. Englehorn held his breath, listening until all he heard was the thumping of his heart.

And then it came, distant but clear: a second, answering horn.

"_Verdammt noch mal_," Englehorn said through his teeth.

"I thought Beaufort was the only one crazy enough to come to the Island," said John.

"No," Englehorn replied. "Thrill-seekers some, but mostly scientific expeditions, wanting to catalogue and explore. I've lost count of the number of offers I've turned down."

They fell back into silence as they considered this, and they listened to the two boats talk to each other. The other's horn became louder and clearer, but never so much to suggest that suggest that the _Venture_ purposefully approached it. Englehorn doubted that Beaufort had any intention of exchanging pleasantries with the other ship.

He settled back against the crate, and when he looked up, he saw that Miss Ashfield was staring at him. No – not at him; her eyes focused on nothing, and he realized that her attention was solely on the horns. Her face was shadowy and blank, but he thought he saw something there that he hadn't expected to see: hope.

* * *

Interlude Six: Part Three: The Edge of Cultivation

"Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre?"  
- Rudyard Kipling, "The Explorer"

October 15, 1934  
Skull Island

He shouldn't think of it as _his_ island, but now that he was back – now that it was right here in front of him in all its terrifying glory – Carl Denham knew he'd always think of it that way. _His_ island.

Maybe he hadn't been the first to discover it, but he'd put it on the map, so to speak. Because of him, Skull Island was no longer a mere rumor or just a whisper between superstitious sailors. Now it was a real and terrible thing that no one could ignore. He'd created the hype of Skull Island, just as he had created the wonder of Kong. Didn't that make him a god of sorts? Creation and destruction – that's what gods do, right?

These were his daydreams; he spoke of them to no one. He just liked to indulge in the fantasy, especially on those rare days when he wasn't feeling so sure of himself.

For instance, right now, he was feeling a bit possessive about the Island. He had wanted to make a triumphant return to the Island, as brave adventurer, as conquering hero, but the _Delphi_ had beaten them. The sleek white vessel sat prim as a debutante in the water, looking none the worse for wear despite being at sea for at least two months. The _Venture_ was an old maid compared to her, worn from her travels and weary of her load. They chugged past her, following the curve of the south end of the Island.

"There's the best that money can buy," said Beaufort, standing at the rail next to Carl. "If I was a shipping man, I'd be jealous."

"But how'd she get here so fast?" Carl asked. "The telegram said she wouldn't be leaving San Francisco until the tenth."

"Blackstone's scientific curiosity waits for nothing. I wouldn't be surprised that he left port well ahead of schedule. He's a damned efficient man."

"Or maybe your contact lied to you."

Beaufort frowned and gripped his cigar so tightly that Carl thought it might actually break. "I hope that's not the case, for his sake."

Kendrie came up from the lower deck, a set of field glasses in his hand. "Shall we hail her, Mr. Beaufort?" he asked.

"No."

"What if she hails us?"

"Tell her to mind her own damn business."

"Not very neighborly of you, is it?" said Kendrie.

Beaufort turned to face him with a hard look. "Are you worried about propriety now, Mr. Kendrie? After you just led a mutiny on this ship?"

To his credit, the _Venture_'s new captain held his ground under the stern eye of the tycoon. "I'm just making an observation." As an afterthought, he added, "Sir."

"I'll ask for your opinion when I want it," Beaufort snapped. "Don't push me, Kendrie. You have this ship because of me. Don't forget that."

Touching the brim of his cap, Kendrie said, "I assure you, I won't." Then he stomped off the deck and up into the wheelhouse.

"You think it's wise to talk to him like that?" Carl asked.

"It's the only way to deal with men like him, Carl. You've got to show them who's boss. Otherwise, they start thinking they're better off without you, and then, who will do your dirty work?"

All Carl could do was shrug.

"Maybe you like getting your hands dirty, but Beauforts have always been too good for that kind of thing. It's what the little people are for.

Carl wondered if Beaufort thought he was one of the "little people" too. He knew that Beaufort thought of him as little more than a tool, a means to an end and nothing more. This bothered him less than he thought it might, if only because Beaufort treated all people in such a fashion. If anything, Carl considered himself fortunate that Beaufort still had use for him – otherwise he'd end up wandering the ship aimlessly like Robert or stuck down in the hold with Englehorn.

For what it was worth, he'd lobbied against the idea of a mutiny. True, he'd be glad to step foot on the Island with Englehorn and the Ashfields in tow, but he thought the cost of doing so was a bit much. Beaufort had shown his usual lack of respect for the law and went ahead with it. Wealth and power made him an impatient man; he wanted to get to the Island sooner rather than later, German captains be damned. Carl had dropped any signs of dissent for fear of losing Beaufort's interest.

Of course he regretted it, but what could he do? He'd make it up to them later, and he was sure Beaufort would do the same. The man wasn't all bad, not really.

"This is my destiny, Carl," Beaufort was saying. "I can feel it. By the end of this trip, I will have conquered the most dangerous game in the world. This Island will be mine."

A smug smile spread across his face, and he left the deck, disappearing down the stairs leading to the cabins. Denham remained at the rail, the wind ruffling his hair and the setting sun warming his back. He was alone with the Island.

"My island," he whispered.


	16. Chapter 10

My sincerest apologies for the delay.I've been busy with visiting family (seems everyone wants to stay with you when you live on the beach) and doing research for an original novel. Posting will likely continue to be haphazard throughout the summer.

As always, much love to my reviewers and readers, and welcome to those who are joining the ride. I shall endeavor to keep you entertained.

* * *

Chapter Ten  
October 16, 1934  
Skull Island 

Perched thirty feet up on the rock face of the coastal cliffs, Dr. Roland Mayhew felt about as safe as a person possibly could on Skull Island. The height gave him an excellent vantage point over the colony of seals on theshore, and he'd spent most of the morning with field glasses in one hand and pen in the other, his thigh providing stabilization for his notebook. An umbrella propped over his head protected him from the sun and the heat he hadn't even noticed until Ed Newell took the glasses from him and shoved a canteen into his hand.

The stocky American hunter sat a few feet away, cross-legged like Mayhew, his rifle resting across his knees. His rumpled khaki hat did the same job as Mayhew's umbrella. Once Mayhew had had his fill of water, Newell handed the glasses back to him.

"What do you make of it?" Newell asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the barking of the seals.

"Classic grouping," replied Mayhew. He used his pen as a pointer. "Two distinct herds, and you can see the bulls there and there. Scars on the one are impressive, even for a bull his age and size, probably due to the nature of the Island itself. Even the females –"

"That's not what I meant," Newell said with a growl. He gestured out over the water. "What do you make of them?"

Mayhew didn't need the glasses to see what he indicated. The boat – a rusty old bucket of a tramp steamer – sat anchored in the water about a hundred feet south of their position on the rocks. He was quite sure that Newell had chosen this spot as much for the new arrivals as for the seal colony.

"You think they got blown of course?" Mayhew asked. "Or did they come here on purpose?"

"I didn't think Englehorn had the balls to come back here," Newell answered. Off Mayhew's confused look, he added, "That's the _Venture_ sitting out there."

Mayhew looked back at the ship with a new sense of respect. He hadn't been in New York at the time of Kong's debut – the Museum of Natural History had him on assignment in Alaska. Primates weren't his forte, but what zoologist could ignore a find like Kong? Once he got back to New York (frozen to the bone, no more trips to the Arctic, thank you very much), he left his journals and observations to his research assistants and threw himself headfirst into the mystery of Kong. He spent several weeks just catching up on the articles written about the beast, though most smacked of the hyperbole typical of editors more eager to sell papers than to inform the public.

Then he heard about Kong's island.

It was a zoologist's wet dream. Setting aside the dinosaurs – Mayhew had never had much use for them, being far more interested in living creatures than those long dead – the Island was supposedly overrun with creatures never before seen. Forget about fame and fortune – cataloguing a place like Skull Island would put a name in the history books permanently. A man could become the Charles Darwin of the twentieth century.

Augustus Blackstone, noted for his work in anthropology rather than zoology, had approached him, saving Mayhew the humiliation of going to him and begging on his knees to join the _Delphi_ expedition. He hadn't been Blackstone's first choice, but the zoologist he'd had backed out when his wife threatened to leave him if he went. Having no such sentimental connections, Mayhew had gladly accepted. By that time, early August, most of the preparations were well underway.

And now here he was, on the Island itself, gazing at the boat that had started it all. He felt a contentment he hadn't thought possible on this Island.

"Has anyone tried contacting them yet?" he asked.

"Not that I know of."

"What does Blackstone say about it?"

"Damned if I know. I'm not paid to ask him questions."

Mayhew did not reply to that; he knew quite well what Newell was paid for, and it included neither asking questions nor providing thought-provoking conversation.

Not that he would complain about the hunter's presence – he appreciated it too much. Not only was the man built like a tank, he had experience to put to good use. Mayhew knew how to handle a gun, but he did most of his shooting with a camera. He was, after all, a scientist, not a sportsman. If not for Newell, Blackstone wouldn't allow him to take these little side-trips away from the main camp. Massey, the paleontologist, hunted big game all the time when he wasn't digging up bones, and no one thought twice about sending one of Newell's assistants out with him. Mayhew might have felt offended if Newell hadn't already saved his life a few times.

"Knowing Claire, she probably wants to go and meet them," said Mayhew.

Newell's mouth tightened, the only outward sign of his inner irritation. He did not like the Blackstone woman – Mayhew wasn't sure Newell liked any woman beyond what pleasure he could get out of her – but he'd learned to be diplomatic about it. Most of the crew viewed Claire as the mother hen, a bit fussy perhaps but focused on making them all feel as comfortable as possible on the Island. As far as Mayhew could tell, Newell was the only one who had yet to warm up to her.

"Do you think they've noticed us yet?"

The hunter turned his icy gray gaze on him, andMayhew realized that he had probably just asked one question too many. "Don't you have work to do?" Newell said.

Mayhew returned his attention to the seals, and from the corner of his eye, he watched Newell lean back against the rocks and close his eyes. It didn't concern Mayhew; up on the rocks, they were out of the way of predators, which generally ignored them in favor of the seals anyway. And Mayhew already knew how quickly Newell could go from a deep sleep to full alert.

With Newell dozing, Mayhew positioned himself so that he had a better view of the _Venture_'s deck. Through the binoculars, he saw nothing special about the crew; they looked as much like sailors as the _Delphi_'s crew did. One thing set them apart – they all carried Thompson submachine guns.

To make things stranger, a group of half a dozen people came up out of the hold and walked down the deck in a line. They appeared to be sailors, but Mayhew would have bet his umbrella that one of them was a woman; he couldn't make out the facial details, but no one could mistake those feminine contours. She and her companions did not have guns; in fact, another sailor stood near them, Tommy gun pointed in their general direction.

"That's odd," he muttered.

"What is?" said Newell. He sat up and squinted, quickly checking the area, fingers tightening around his rifle. They relaxed a bit when he realized Mayhew was still focused on the steamer. "Christ, man, can't you just leave me alone?"

"I think they've got some people held at gunpoint," Mayhew said, pointing at the boat. He handed the glasses back to Newell, who simply stared at him. "Have a look."

"You been out in the sun too long, son," Newell replied. "Else your imagination is getting the better of you."

Mayhew didn't bother to reply that, as a scientist, his imagination was limited at best and non-existent at worst. His was a mind trained to observe and hypothesize, and right now, his brain told him that six people on the _Venture_ were being held at gunpoint. To Newell, he said, "Just take a look, will you?"

Newell took the glasses, but he stuffed them into his pack. "That's enough for today, Doctor."

"But the sun's still high. It's the middle of the afternoon."

"And the heat is obviously affecting your brain."

The zoologist looked at his notebook; he'd filled half of it with his observations of the seals. "I suppose I have enough for a cursory report on this stretch of the coast. There are other sections of the Island I want to catalogue." Neither did he want to spend another night trying to sleep on the rocks; once had been enough.

"And we can spend the evening preparing for that, but only if we leave now. It's a six hour hike back to the camp; we can be there before sunset if you don't dawdle." The accusation in his voice didn't upset Mayhew in the least. If the scientist had a choice, he'd spend hours observing the creatures crossing their path in the jungle. Newell's mercenary tastes found no use for his scientific interest in this untouched world.

"What about the _Venture_?" Mayhew asked.

Newell had already slung his rifle over his shoulder, and he'd begun to sidle down the rock wall. "I'll discuss it with Blackstone. Are you coming or not, because I'll leave without you."

This prompted Newell to scramble to put away his things and follow Newell. Much as he wanted to stay and see what the _Venture_'s crew did, the last thing he wanted to do was find his way back to the _Delphi_ by himself.

* * *

On the deck of the _Venture_, Laura Ashfield stared at the Island – could anything be greener or darker? Could anything be more beautiful in all its deadly glory? Beside her, Gutson shuddered, and Starke averted his gaze as though he couldn't stand to look straight at the Island. Laura couldn't take her eyes off it. 

The wind, coming off the water, smelled of salt, and the air had a warm, tropical feeling to it. Sweat dripped down her back, and her blue shirt clung to her in places. Her physical discomfort was the least of her worries.

When they came up out of the hold, Laura had thought their captors would tie their hands, but no one seemed to think it necessary. Each of the crewmen carried a Tommy gun, and as Laura watched them, she wondered how many of them actually knew how to use such a weapon properly. She decided she didn't want to know. One man had been assigned as their guard, and he stood near them, looking concerned for any number of reasons. Though they outnumbered him, the captives had no safe place to go, and the gun really was deterrent enough.

Robert came up from the stern and slowed as he neared the group. He carried a backpack in one hand and an emergency kit in the other.

"Keep walking, Bobby," John said as the younger Ashfield approached.

"I want to apologize," Robert said.

"If you were really sorry," Laura replied, "you'd help us."

Shifting his weight, Robert glanced at the Island then looked away quickly, as though the sight of it was too much to bear. He stared at his feet as he said, "Beaufort's already been ashore, as a trial. He's ready to go deeper into the jungle. You're coming with us."

Gutson groaned, and Starke gave him a soft pat on the shoulder.

"Why?" Laura demanded.

Englehorn answered for Robert. "Three capable hunters and the only men onboard who have already been there and back. Beaufort would have to be stupid to ignore that."

"And," John said, "we already know Beaufort's not exactly stupid. Crazy, maybe, but not stupid."

In a low voice, Starke said, "None of us'll come back alive."

Robert scurried away, going to one of the longboats to watch the men load the guns taken from Englehorn's cabin. Bridget came up from below decks, looking fresh and young with her bouncing curls. She wore a clean white blouse and khaki trousers; clearly she meant to go ashore with the Society. Denham emerged after her, followed by his assistant, who carried the camera equipment.

Laura rested her head on John's back and wondered if the next time she saw their father, they'd all be in the Happy Hunting Grounds.

"This," John said softly, "is a truly stupid idea."

"All of Carl's ideas are fundamentally stupid ideas," Laura replied, her voice muffled into John's shirt.

"I think," Englehorn said, "this is less Denham's idea and more Beaufort's."

Without lifting her head from John's back, Laura said, "That doesn't make me feel any better."

John jerked away from her suddenly and grabbed her elbow. "Please tell me you see that," he said, pointing to shore, north of the _Venture_'s position. "Tell me I'm not imagining it."

All six of them faced the Island, squinting to get a better look at the beach. Laura saw only a colony of seals, and then movement above them on the rocks made her realize she wasn't looking in the right place. Two fingers worked their way down the cliffs, and they looked distinctly human.

"What the hell?" Englehorn muttered.

Laura turned to face the longboats and called, "Carl!"

The director faced her and held out his hands, shaking his head. He actually seemed regretful.

"Binoculars," she called to him. "Please, bring us a pair."

Denham glanced behind him – Beaufort and Kendrie, both wearing waterproof trench coats for reasons Laura had yet to understand, stood at the other end of the longboat, arguing about something – then reached into the boat and pulled out a backpack. As he moved to the captives, he rummaged through it, eventually pulling out a pair of field glasses.

The sailor guarding them adjusted his gun. "You should stay back, Mr. Denham."

"What are you going to do?" Denham retorted. "Shoot me?"

The man hesitated, and Denham shook his head. He gave the glasses to Laura.

"Thank you," she said and faced the cliffs again.

"Sorry I can't do more," Denham replied.

"Right," John said, glowering at the shorter man. "Sure you are."

"Look," Denham said as Laura lifted the binoculars and scanned the rock wall. "None of this was my idea. Sure, I've stretched the law before, but this is – this is too much, even for me. A mutiny, for Christ's sake!"

"Save it," Englehorn said. "You're just hot air, Denham."

"You want an apology? Fine, I'm sorry. Doesn't do much to help the situation, does it?"

"Shut up, all of you," Laura said. "There are two men climbing down from those rocks over the shore."

The men crowded around her.

"Natives?" Denham asked.

"White men."

"They must be from the _Delphi_."

"What's that?" Starke asked.

"It's a boat anchored up the coast, north of here. Beaufort got a telegram about it when we were still in Bombay. It's a scientific expedition."

"Let me see," John said, touching Laura's arm.

She jerked away from him. "Wait."

Adjusting the lenses, she tried to focus on each man in turn. One was fair-haired, probably in his mid-thirties. Despite his nimble movements, he looked out of place up there on the rocks; he had an umbrella strapped to his back instead of a rifle. His companion was older and rougher, with gray sprinkled in his black hair, and suitably armed for the Island's menaces. When he turned his face to the water, Laura recognized him instantly. Even through the glasses, she could see the old, white scar that ran down the left side of his face.

"Son of a bitch," she said as she lowered the glasses.

"What?" John asked, taking them from her.

"That's Newell up there."

Englehorn muttered a low curse in German and glared at Denham. "I thought you said it was a scientific expedition."

"It is!" Denham replied. "Who's this Newell character?"

"Only one of the most famous white hunters in the world," Laura said. "Spends most of his time in Africa, blowing the legs off lions for the sheer fun of it."

"Sounds charming," Denham commented.

"He's rather a lot like Beaufort," said John.

Laura shook her head. "Except he's not in it for the recreation. This man's the real thing. He goes after man-eaters for the rewards he gets."

"No rewards for coming to Skull Island," said Englehorn. "So why is he here?"

"Maybe for the same reason Beaufort is," replied Laura.

From the longboat, Beaufort shouted Denham's name and waved an arm at the group. "Bring them over; we're ready to launch."

John took Laura's hand as they followed Denham to the boat, Englehorn and his sailors coming behind them. The longboat had already been hoisted to the side of the _Venture_, and Bridget and the other Society men sat in it among the guns and the equipment. There were enough guns for everyone, including the captives. It relieved Laura to see that.

Beaufort smiled unpleasantly at them. "Do me the favor of taking the rudder, Englehorn? I'll give you the choice of landfall this time."

"We're not going," Englehorn stated.

"Really?" Beaufort replied without losing his smile. He swung open his trench coat and rested his hand on a pistol holstered on his right hip. "Would you like to die here, on your boat? Better yet –." He shifted his gaze to Laura. "I don't like to change the stakes once they've been set. So let's try that again, shall we?"

"There's no need for that," said Laura. "No one's going to be shooting anyone else. We'll go."

"Spoken like a lady," Beaufort said as he folded his arms over his chest, letting the trench coat slide closed again. "If not for you, Miss Ashfield, perhaps your companions would have to show just how cowardly they really are."

John's grip tightened on her hand, but Laura shook her head. Now was not the time to challenge Beaufort; she'd rather wait until the odds of succeeding were in their favor. Englehorn brushed past Laura without looking at her, and she wondered if he felt the same way.

Beaufort threw his head back and laughed as Englehorn and his sailors climbed over the side of the _Venture_ into the longboat. He was still laughing followed them in, letting go of John's hand to take Englehorn's as he helped her down. He stood at the rudder, and Laura sat down in front of him, next to Bridget. It gave the men plenty of room to tend the oars.

Bridget hooked her arm through Laura's and crowded close to her. "I'm so glad you're coming, Miss Ashfield. It'll be so nice to have another woman to share this experience."

Laura did not return the enthusiasm, watching instead as John settled himself across from her. In the bow of the boat, she could see Robert and Denham trying to avoid eye contact with her.

"You'll be coming right along," Beaufort said to Kendrie in a voice that suggested he'd better do just that.

"Just as soon as the other boat's ready to launch," Kendrie replied.

"Be quick about it," said Beaufort, and he stepped down into the longboat, taking the oar beside John. As he settled in, he spread out his coat, again showing off the pistol at his waist. He stared up at Englehorn and said, "No trouble now, right, Englehorn?"

Without replying, Englehorn gestured to the men holding the lines, and the longboat began to descend. The impact with the water jostled the passengers about a bit, but the surf was calm and manageable. The men pulled at the oars, and the boat slid through the water with ease, gliding across the glassy surface.


	17. Author's Note

Author's Note:

I hate writing author's notes, but this is important.

I have not abandoned the story. I'm still working on it, in bits and pieces. The problem is this: I got a new job. I am now teaching English and Reading to 9th graders. I knew this would take away much of my free time, but I never realized how much I would actually be losing. I am only now (as we near the end of the first quarter) getting caught up on all my grading, training, and lesson-planning.

It is my hope that, as the second quarter begins and I adapt even more to my new schedule, I will continue to post chapters to the story. I also recently moved, which took up more time than I cared to give to it. I sat down this past weekend (the first weekend I've had wholly to myself to do whatever I wanted) and wrote outlines for the next four chapters. All I need to do is make the time to write them.

I repeat: I am not abandoning the story. I think part of my stress these past two months stems from the fact that I haven't been able to write whenever I want to. I want that to change. I have so many ideas for the Ashfields and the Island, and I'm eager to get them down. So, my promise to my readers is this: it's not over yet. Give me some time, and I'll get this plot moving again, even if it means ignoring the stack of papers that needs to be graded.

Well, maybe not, but I'm going to make the effort.


End file.
